


Infinite Night

by eiseedoesit



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Infanticide, M/M, Mpreg, Slavery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-19
Updated: 2014-02-12
Packaged: 2017-12-20 15:44:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 48,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/889019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eiseedoesit/pseuds/eiseedoesit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I will melt every world, extinguish every star, and kill every last one of your soldiers til you have nothing left to defend. Then it will just be you and I. As it was meant to be." Prequel to "Casualties of War." Megatron/Optimus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Infinite Night

**Author's Note:**

> This story follows the live-action movie verse, which includes the comic book tie-ins, particularly "Tales of the Fallen" and "Dark of the Moon: Foundation." Some elements from the War for Cybertron, Exodus, and Transformers Prime continuities have been included in the story as well, mainly in regards to the caste system and some character designs. If something doesn't look familiar at all, then I probably just made it up.
> 
> As much as I try to keep the story in line with the movie continuity, I had to make necessary changes to the timeline of events. You don't need to read the companion piece "Casualties of War" to understand what's going on, but it won't hurt to look at that fic either : )
> 
> Italics mean the characters are using comm links.

* * *

"Those who hate most fervently must have once loved deeply. Those who want to deny the world must have once embraced what they now set on fire."

—Kurt Tucholsky

* * *

Twisted metal lashed out from the screaming, bleeding sky.

Above the crumbling skies of Simfur, the great black ships continued their assault, their monstrous canons blazing with heat. Furious blasts were unleashed upon the frantic targets on the ground, countless mechs and femmes fleeing every way and finding no shelter nor escape. The fortunate ones burst into torrents of shrapnel as the barrage of bullets tore through them.

A screeching, splitting roar drowned the desperate calls of the survivors. Out of the battered ground serpentine forms emerged. The hideous creatures sliced their numerous tentacles through the panicking crowds, smashing through steel and spark to reach their target. The serpentine drills wrapped themselves around the once proud golden citadel, their combined might ripping the structure from its foundation. The citadel fell against their crushing power, just as the entire world fell at the command of their warlord.

" _You always saw the good and beauty in everything. Tell me now, my light, the beauty of my victory."_

Orion stood before the trembling temple of Simfur, the only remaining structure that stood in the devastated city. He couldn't look back at the fallen citadels or the countless Cybertronians blown apart like worthless scrap while their spilled energon drenched the streets. He would falter if he did. And he could not give in. Not now.

He looked up at the tarnished sky, dark and filthy with smoke and missiles. With darkened optics he searched the massive ships looming overhead, wondering if  _he_  saw him now. The voice called to him again through the comm link, as clear and deep as he remembered. And he hated how after all that happened between them his spark still ached for the sound.

" _Is this not what you wanted? A chance to begin this world anew? I promised to give you that chance long ago. And I now at last, I have."_

" _No. Not like this."_  Orion forced himself to keep his voice strong even though he knew Megatron could detect the fear in his words.

" _I promised to give you a new Cybertron, a glorious new era, a new Dynasty that will begin with us. Have you forgotten my light, how much joy you felt when I promised all those things? Have you forgotten who you are? Who I am to you?"_

The young mech felt Megatron's presence as strongly as if he were there, pulling him back from entering the temple. His optics looked into the terrible furnace that was once a sacred ground for his ancestors. Now it was on the brink of destruction, just like everything else that tied him to his past.

" _Now fulfill your promise to me."_

Orion's optics closed, his processors overwhelmed by how many promises were made and broken, how many lives were sacrificed for his sake, how many still needed a Prime to raise up and guide them. He could not fail them. At all costs, he must not give in. No matter how much he wanted to.

" _Remember who you were before that accursed lineage took you from me! My light, my love… "_

Megatron's voice reached out with a strange gentleness only Orion knew. And he would have given anything for a chance to have never known the warmth and tenderness of it. It tortured him, grieved him more than even he could comprehend, how that gentle voice belonged to same one who slaughtered innocents in the fury of his hate and madness.

" _I will end this suffering. But only if you give me complete surrender."_

Orion's gaze lifted to the sky once more, the full terror of Megatron's army breaking through the last of their defenses.

" _My mercy will not last forever. Proclaim me as your Lord. Or I will tear through what remains of your r_ _e_ _sistance and claim you by force."_ The voice gradually changed, the former gentleness turning harsh and sinister. It was no longer the voice of his beloved. It was the voice of a desperate tyrant. " _The war has already been won. Victory is mine. You are mine."_

Orion heard the falling buildings, the clash of steel, stone, and metal as they bent and broke all around him. And then the screams…the spark-shattering screams of femmes and mechs as they cradled the torn remains of their children, the screams of warriors as they charged aimlessly into a losing battle…the screams of medics and orphans, the dead and the dying resounding into a single hideous plea. And it was a plea he could not ignore. Not anymore.

" _You will never have complete victory. Not while I still stand."_ Orion answered, _"You may win this war Meg_ _a_ _tron, but you will never win me."_

" _Then prepare to fall,"_

Above the young wounded mech the dark clouds of war gathered, ready to shower the world with metal and fire. In the midst of the chaos Orion heard voices calling to him, shouting and rushing to pull him away from the crumbling temple.

" _Forgive me."_  Orion whispered, " _And farewell."_  He closed off their com link, his spark faltering at the emptiness. Farewell to the lies, dreams, and foolish hopes. Farewell to any chance of peace...

He braced his servos against the entrance of the temple to support himself, his injuries taking their toll on his weakened frame. The scourging heat lashed against him, the fire drawing him closer to collapse. The voices of his friends drew closer, begging him to step away from the temple, pleading for him to escape the city.

The temptation was great, but the choice was clear.

"Primes do not flee," Orion spoke the words of his late mentor, more for himself than the terrified autobots speeding to save him. He drew strength from the wisdom of the ancient saying, strength that he could not provide on his own. "They fight."

And with those words he stepped into the inferno. He held his helm up high. He did not look back. He must never look back.

He staggered into the ancient temple, the flames growing stronger the more steps he took. The blaze filled the temple with blinding light, cruel images flooding his sensors. His systems threatened to breakdown from the immense heat. And yet he kept going…deeper and deeper into the furious fire. The pillars supporting the structure groaned and cracked above him, the metallic floor melted from under him, yet his spark still urged him on.

Soon he saw faces looking down at him in the fire. The lifeless remains of great warriors and leaders were mounted along the walls, their hollow optics gleaming in the raising flames. Their majestic frames towered above Orion, menacing, regal, and powerful even in death. And each one of them bore a mark similar to Orion's own…the mark identifying him as a descendant of the Primes.

He searched their faces, seeking to find some connection with them. He wanted to scream, to pour out all the pain, frustration, and guilt he bore for being the last one.

 _The last one._  It was a whisper that swept around him, and he feared that he was truly going insane. He couldn't identify the voice, but it spoke to him softly, each word cruel, cutting and true.

_The weakest one._

Yes. The weakest one. A true Prime would never have allowed Cybertron to tear itself apart. But he did…because of his greatest weakness, he did. And he must never succumb to it again.

_The Guilty..._

_Lonely..._

_Miserable one._

He screamed and still the soft voice remained; a voice that sounded too much like his own.

_The only one._

Suddenly he stopped moving, and in his intense anger and frustration he finally realized his darkest wish.

_The last one._

He wanted to join them, this Dynasty and family he never knew. He wanted to remain in the temple until the flames consumed him, mercifully saving him from the fate his ancestors left him. He couldn't bear the responsibility they left him to fulfill alone. His guilt assaulted all his senses, tearing him apart more painfully than the fire seeping into his frame.

He felt himself slipping. He staggered onward, barely reaching the center of the room where a great statue of their silent god stood perfect amongst the flames.

Orion fell at the base of the statue, the last of his strength giving way as he looked up at the majestic stone-carved face of Primus. The idol of the silent god remained unmoved, as stoic and lifeless as he always was. Orion's spark flared and lashed out violently, but his body did not respond.

His optics closed. For once in his life he longed for the darkness not the light, yearning for the coolness of night and the glow of distance stars, his spark aching for the familiar touch of another's hand holding his. But now he was alone, no stars above, no comfort, no escape, and no hand to hold his.

Suddenly, he heard a voice call to him from above, a voice not heard since his ancestors were slain. The voice asked one question.

Orion answered with the last measure of his strength, a solitary whisper fading in the flames.

Then he screamed. He burned. And the world burned with him.


	2. Shelters of Burthov

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time units used in the fic are as follows. These measurements are from the IDW publishing and Marvel comics continuities. I arranged them by continuity on my profile page, but here I just arranged them by time duration.
> 
> Klik=1.2 minutes  
> Breem= 8.3 minutes  
> Cycle= 1.25 hours  
> Mega-cycle=93 hours  
> Deca-cycle= 3 weeks  
> Stellar cycle= 7.5 months  
> Meta-cycle=13 months  
> Vorn= 83 years

Before Cybertron was consumed by the fires of war it starved in frigid darkness.

There were long, hopeless vorns where sparklings lived and died without ever knowing day, the sun little more than a myth to them. There were even longer years of terrible, crippling ice storms that froze commoners and nobility. City-state leaders died within their mighty palaces as helplessly as the rebel tribes fighting in the wastelands. The cold showed no respect for rank. Neither did the raiders.

It was a messy, fearful sight to see, and it had become a necessary act of survival. The bolder mechs would out-right attack cargo ships on their way to the great cities, carrying their spoils back to their factions only to be attacked and stolen from in return. Others would lie and wait, quietly stealing from weary nomads as they passed through settlements, forever seeking a better place and finding none. Even the leaders of the city-states stole from the citizens they were appointed to protect, demanding heavier taxes to fund energon stores that would never reach the starving populous. But the worse raids came after the battles. That was when the scavengers came out; orphaned younglings, the disabled, and the swindlers ventured to gather parts. They felt through the scraps and shrapnel, searching for whatever could still be salvaged to sell or use. It was then that the darkness was a blessing, blinding them from knowing whether the metal they held was from a ship, building, or dismembered body. These raiders would gather up their spoils and travel in groups for safety, their miserable frames forming a crooked, ugly line on the surface of the once proud planet.

There was once a time, in a golden age nearly forgotten, when the great Dynasty of the Primes ruled beneath a living sun. During that age such acts of violating the dead would be unspeakable, unfathomable even. It was once considered a disgusting, disgraceful practice to scavenge and sell pieces of fallen warriors like scrap metal. And yet it had become just another part of life. And in this age there was no room for sentiments.

The prosperous age of the Primes became a simple myth…a luxurious escape from reality that none could afford to truly believe. For the wasting, dying citizens of Cybertron their core belief rested in their willingness to survive, to get through another famine, to endure another raid, another ice storm, another cycle spent in eternal darkness. And the more vorns passed, the darker their world became, the less the energon flowed and the more brutal the raids and riots became.

But nowhere in Cybertron was hardest hit than the forgotten shelters of Burthov.

And this one particular night, a peculiar youngling waited by the doorway of one of those shelters.

This certain youngling was favored for his patience and undemanding nature. However in light of the increasing violence surrounding their shelter he gathered up his courage to make a request, a simple plea on behalf of another. If only he could find a chance to speak up while the caretakers spoke of how they were all soon to die.

"Our scant supplies are barely enough to last us another meta-cycle." The one who spoke was a squat, old mech who locked and counted each energon cube like their lives depended on it, which of course it did. His companion was another mech, but bigger and more built for battle.

There was low rumble in the distance. The youngling hid himself against the doorway while the caretakers looked past the windows just in time to see a cargo ship land on the docks. The older mechs frowned when they saw it.

"More energon stores," The elder one mumbled, "Stopping on its way to the citadel no doubt. Sentinel must be freezing in that mighty palace of his to be asking for more."

"The Prime wouldn't be sending for more energon if all the other ships hadn't been raided by those fragging rebels. There's something going on with the Thetacons, they're becoming more aggressive, more desperate. Last I heard they-"

"Bah, it doesn't matter who steals what, none of that energon will reach us here. We're doomed either way. Ask the council for help and they'll say there's a shortage while they hide away in their fortresses with stockpiles of energon. Go to the raiders for help and they'll blast out your processors clean off before collecting the useful parts of you…eh? What? Who's there? Come out!"

"He already is, old friend." The larger of the mechs said. He turned to the youngling edging out of his hiding place, "I'm sure young Orion here did not mean to startle you."

The elderly one had sensors that would prove useless in battle but his systems weren't completely crashed yet. At the mention of the youngling's name the elderly one managed to smile, a crooked, slanted one but a smile nonetheless. And for a grumpy, frustrated mech smiles were reserved for a select few.

"Ah, Orion, yes, yes the one youngling that doesn't make me want to shoot myself…what is it? What do you need? If it is another story then it must wait. We have matters to discuss about our supplies and what to do with…with certain mechs who pose more trouble than good. "

Orion's blue helm looked up, knowing full well who the caretaker was referring to.

"That is what I wish to ask you about sir," Orion said.

"Sir eh? I like that. Always the respectful one. Not many younglings like that now. Young ones these days seem more hungry for hurt than anything else. Too busy trying to get themselves blown up in the fights. But that's not what you're here for. Well, what is it?"

"I came here to ask for your forgiveness." Orion replied. He wasn't quite sure what to do with himself. Should he bow? Beg? Shout? That's what the others usually did when they asked for things. He however, was unused to asking anyone for anything. He didn't need to. His closest friend made sure he had everything he needed before he could even ask. And right now that same friend needed him.

"I do not understand young one," The elderly one said. One of his optics flickered so fast it looked like it was about to go out, "You've done nothing wrong."

"Not for myself sir. I ask forgiveness on behalf of Tron."

The smile was swept clear off the elderly mech's faceplate at the mention of the name.

"Please, you can't leave him outside. Not while the raids are happening this frequently. He might—"

"Youngling…you know why we can't let him back in. Fights do not belong in shelters, they belong outside, and punishment must be handed quickly and justly to maintain order." The kinder mech said as gently as he could. He knew how attached Orion was to Tron, though for the spark of him could not understand why.

"It was just an argument that got out of hand," Orion said, getting desperate, "He didn't give the first strike."

"But he did give the second, and third, and fourth until his poor opponent's neck cables nearly snapped right off his frame." The old one said, tapping his bent pedals on the floor to highlight each strike, "Tron may not have started the fight, but he was sure as pit willing to end it. Your friend is out of control. He needs to be taught a lesson. If it wasn't for your interference he'd most certainly killed someone by now."

"But he hasn't and he won't." Orion said, "Please sir—"

"If your friend is so eager to fight then let him have a taste of real battle, out there, with the raiders, rebels, and everything else we've got to keep out!"

"Sir, Tron is no warrior. He only fought with that thoughtless youngling in my defense. I'm responsible for him being sent outside. If you can't allow him back in for the night then at least let me bring him his share of the energon. It has been so long since they were distributed and he was injured from the fight..."

"As what usually happens to arrogant, foolish younglings who fancy themselves above the rules," The elderly caretaker shook his faded green helm, "I'm sorry Orion. You may be my favorite but not even you can plead Tron out of his punishment. He will receive no energon, and what wounds he acquired from that fight he'll have to mend on his own."

"But sir, how can he? He'll need energon, a medic, surely there has to be someone who can—"

"We all need energon and medics and both are a rare sight to see here. With everyone searching for energon no one will spare any for us, much less on someone like Tron. We're just a speck in the middle of a trash site, raiders and outlaws on every side," The elder replied, growing tired, "When the Dynasty still ruled there were no shelters. There was no need for any…"

"You remember the Dynasty? You've lived through their rule?"

At the mention of the dynasty something deep within Orion's spark stirred awake. He doubted that the old mech lived that long to have seen them. In fact, even the eldest mechs he spoke to couldn't recall a time where the Dynasty even ruled. It was so long ago, perhaps so long that their existence wasn't even real at all, just another story to give them false hope. Orion was not a fool, but still he found himself hoping that even a fraction of the legends were true.

"Oh no, no, the Dynasty ruled ages ago, eons even! Too long ago for even an old mech like me, but when I was young…and believe me I was young at some point, I would hear my elders speak of it."

A change came over the room then as the old one continued on, his feeble voice trembling with more reverence than a myth should receive. Orion listened eagerly. His love for history felt like another part of his normal functioning, as if he was hard wired to seek out such information as hungrily as energon. And of all the stories that fascinated him, the ones about the mythical Dynasty stirred his soul the most.

"Those were glorious days, my elders would tell me…real days! Not lifetimes of eternal night. Energon flowed so freely, bursting through the earth in great torrents, and all the citizens spent their time trying to figure out ways to spend it all before their cites were flooded,"

Orion never saw more energon than the little cubes they distributed in the shelters, and he certainly couldn't imagine rivers of the precious life source flooding their gates. He laughed at the absurd thought. But in spite of how ridiculous the fantasy was his spark longed to have known such a world.

"We didn't crawl or drag our way aimlessly through space. Our world was alive. It flew! Under the wisdom and power of the Primes our planet traveled through the cosmos, harvesting energy from stars. Our world was full of songs, poetry, and technology that could put the other planets to shame. Our ancestors knew nothing of war or famine. They only knew peace, prosperity, and the Primes…The great and noble Dynasty of the Primes, all of them great warriors and champions, a royal line chosen by Primus himself to lead and defend our world! They possessed secrets and powers only known by their own, powers to travel through space by thought, powers to harness the energy of the sun, powers to bring back the dead, powers to destroy and create. "

"Did your elders ever talk about the sun?" Orion asked suddenly, "What it was like?"

An odd question, but the old caretaker couldn't blame him for asking. The poor youngling would probably never see one in his life.

"They tell me…it is beautiful sphere of light, like a spark without a body, uncontained by steel. They say when it shines it brightens the world around you. Things once hidden are suddenly in view. They say it is like sitting beside a boiler, except the heat isn't harsh, but gentle, and the light glows and falls around you…and they say that when the sun is up the sky is vast and the colors change. Why do you ask?"

Before Orion could respond the larger mech laughed, putting a reassuring servo on the young one's shoulder.

"Orion here is always excited when you talk about the Primes and their suns. Though I imagine he's just happy to hear any story except the one we're currently in."

"Eh, well in any case, it's all just stories young one," The rickety old mech said with a wave of his thin hands, "And we best not delve in stories too long."

The bot reached into one of the cabinets and drew out a small cube of energon. He handed the translucent blue cube to Orion's waiting hands.

"Your share of the energon. Do your best to make it last. With the way those Thetacons have been attacking the city-states who knows when we'll see the next shipment."

Orion accepted the blue cube with a grateful nod, yet his optics lifted up for one last plea.

"The answer is still no youngling. Your friend must fend for himself. Return to the barracks. I do not wish you to be out alone."

"Don't worry Sir. I won't be alone," Orion said reassuringly, bowing politely as he left. When the youngling was out of range, the two mechs finally spoke.

"Something is wrong with him," The short, grumpy one said, shaking his head in worry, "That youngling is too kind…to the point of stupidity really. And he's too loyal to that troublemaker for his own good."

"Kindness and loyalty does not mean weakness."

"Hmm, doesn't mean intelligence either." Came the gruff reply, but he spoke it with genuine concern.

"Orion isn't stupid."

"Oh, I'm not calling him inherently stupid," The elder clarified, "The youngling is a natural scholar. But when it comes to that…that Tron, Orion's logic circuits might as well be smashed by a compactor. Any normally functioning mech would stay away from that fiend!"

"But Orion isn't a normal mech is he?"

The green, scruffy bot thought for a moment.

"Nah, can't say he is."

The two bots looked out the window for any sight of the familiar red and blue youngling that both endeared and worried them. There was no sight of him.

"Pity he was brought here as an orphan. I can imagine he came from a decent line. Probably from the upper caste. "

A favorite subject amongst the bots living in the shelters were the orphans, particularly in the circumstances surrounding how they ended up alone in the first place. For every orphan there were a hundred different theories as to how they were abandoned. But the most talked about were Tron and Orion. Many wondered what line the aggressive mech could have possibly descended from to make him so hostile. Many more wondered how Orion even ended up in place as vile as Burthov. If anything Orion was clearly not built for the violent, empty wilderness. His skills were honed towards ideas rather than brute actions, his insight into problems surpassing most mechs older than him. And yet he was gentle, patient, and far too giving to survive Burthov on his own.

"He's a good youngling. Train him well and he'll be a decent leader."

"Orion is many things but a leader he is not. He can't even leave that friend of his for one night in the darkness. Can't imagine he'll have what it takes to make the hard decisions."

Both mechs peered through the window again just in time to see a glimpse of red and blue sneaking towards the gates.

"If you're worried about him trying to open the gates, don't. They're locked. I made sure of it when that troublemaker was cast out for the night."

"Like locks will stop him," The other replied, "Those two will find a way. They always do."

They both looked up at the sky, noting the thick and heavy clouds that slowly spread towards them. Shortly after, tiny flecks of ash and dust fell softly on the shelters. The residue covered the cold ground like a dark blanket. A low, deep, rumble came from the sky.

"Another raid," The elder mech said quietly. "Call them in, before the rain begins to mix and pour with the residue of battle."

It was a familiar occurrence they learned to adapt to. When raids and skirmishes were fought the wind often carried the scent and smoke over the shelters, littering the grounds with soot and grime, which in itself left no significant damage. But when combined with the Cybertronian rain, the suffocating ash would melt into a burning liquid form that stung and bit into metal.

"And Tron?"

"No. The rules must be kept. And he earned what he's getting." The elder said, watching as the mechs and femmes rushed into their base. He sighed when Orion was not among them.

"And of Orion?"

"Let him come in on his accord."

"But this rain—"

"May do him some good. Don't give me that look now. I do not wish him any harm," The green bot said quickly as his companion stared at him with disbelief, "But he too needs to learn that he can't neglect himself for the sake of those who don't deserve it."

"By leaving him in this corrosive rain?"

"By letting him realize that his friend isn't worth it. That Tron as they call him is terrible news. And the sooner Orion learns to stay away from him, the better."

* * *

The rain continued to drop slowly, patting against the cheap metal in an incoherent rhythm. Outside, the lights were cut off to reserve the energon stores, leaving the world in total darkness.

Orion's felt his systems jolt when the overhead beams banged shut. When the darkness encompassed him his frame heated up, and a pale measure of light shone within him and radiated outwards providing a way for him to see in the shadows. He could feel the dust and rain falling on his shoulders, gathering and mixing into a slight sting. He held on to the precious cube of energon he had, focused his sensors forward, and continued his trek. His pedals swiftly passed through the crooked, frigid ground, slipping and tripping through debris. He raised one robotic hand to cover his optics from the falling flakes descending out of the smog and rain.

"Tron?" He called out towards the gates. He felt tiny spots on his armor burning from the rain, worried about how his friend's wounds would react to the sting.

"Orion?"

The red and blue bot followed the sound, relieved at the sound of the familiar voice. The voice led him towards the side of the gate. It was a pathetic excuse for a gate really. It was just formed from strips of scrap woven together carelessly to provide some semblance of protection. And through the huge cracks and gaps within that gate Orion saw the bright red optics of his friend searching for him.

"I'm here."

Their optics found each other, blue and red light pushing back the darkness. The blue optics were filled with relief and pity. The red ones were simply staring in disbelief, afraid to turn away should this all be just an effect of the smog on his sensors.

Orion wasted no time and rushed to greet his friend, shaking the gate in the hopes of jarring it loose.

"They'll just throw me out again. For good this time, if you actually get it open." Tron said, "And you shouldn't be here."

Orion stopped, embarrassed that he hadn't thought of the consequences sooner like he usually did. He scanned Tron quickly, noting that his wounds were still far from healed. He reached out an arm through a gap in the gate, inspecting the wound on his friend's shoulder. The top part of the shoulder was crushed in, a thick line of energon still leaking through the cracks. The acidic raindrops fell on the wound. Their olfactory sensors were hit by the sharp stentch of melting metal . Tron hissed and Orion felt the pain as his own.

"I came to give you this." Orion said. He pushed the cube of energon through the gap, "You need it. You don't know how much energon you lost since that fight."

"You'll get in trouble for bring this to me." Tron pushed the cube back at Orion, "I'm not supposed to receive my share."

"They never said I couldn't share my cube though." Orion replied, smiling a bit.

"Guess I am a bad influence." Tron couldn't help but laugh. It was a sound that very few ever heard. As Tron took his portion of the cube Orion began to gather pieces of rock and metal from his side of the gate.

"What are you doing?"

"Making a shelter on my side," Orion said, "At least one stable enough to last me the night."

"You're insane. Get back inside. This rain will bite through armor. And it's getting heavier with every klik."

"Then I'll have to work faster then." Orion said simply. He continued his work, piling up stones and bending scraps of metal into a makeshift tent. He attached part of the roof to a piece of the gate itself, allowing him to have a cover above him as he worked while still being able to see Tron.

"You don't have to do this," Tron said after he finished with the energon.

"You didn't have to defend me from that mech. Yet you still did." Orion said. His bright optics locked with Tron once again, "This is the least I can do to thank you."

They both worked silently after that. Tron decided to copy Orion's design and went straight to work on building his own tent from his side. The energon his friend gave him helped ease the pain of his wound. Tron quickly caught up with Orion and they finished together, each taking shelter in their respective sides. They settled by the ground, side by side, as close as they always were save the ugly gate that separated them. But to them it did not matter, not while they saw and felt that the other was close and still alive.

"You really should have tried some diplomacy instead of trying to tear him in half." Orion said, finally breaking the silence. It was a thought that disturbed him since Tron fought in his defense. He watched his friend carefully, taking in the strange tranquility of his own soft light reflecting against Tron's dark silver frame.

"Diplomacy is for those high born mechs who can afford it. Around here diplomacy gets you killed." Tron replied.

"And attacking a mech twice your size doesn't?" Orion asked, "The caretakers aren't going to stand anymore fights Tron. They're scared of what you might do."

"As they should. They're scared of my potential. They punish and scold me because they see me as a threat. I'm stronger, smarter, and braver than any of them…"

Tron's sharp face contorted with disgust. Orion should sense his body shaking with renewed rage.

"And I don't see how you can put up with it either. You and I deserve better than this trash heap. And everyone knows it!" Tron said. Orion's audios felt a strange chill at his words. He reached out through the gap between them to touch Tron's shoulder. The silver youngling was shaking now, all his pent up frustration and anger threatening to explode.

"I know," Orion said gently, "But we don't exactly have a choice...this is where we must stay. We need to make the best of it." He rested a hand on his friend's shoulder. There was heat beneath the sharp, curved armor. But at the touch of Orion's hand Tron's trembling ceased until he remained still. The soft whirl of fans and cooling systems mixed with the patting of the rain.

"You say it but you don't believe it." Tron said, "You want a way out of this blasted wasteland as much as I do. Everyone hungers for it. Anyone who says otherwise is either dead or a liar."

"Even if we could get out where will we go? There is no place for us. If we somehow board one of the ships and escaped what more can we do? If we travel to Crystal City, or Iacon, or Kaon, we will fare far worse than we do now. We are safe here." Orion said.

"We aren't safe anywhere. This isn't a haven. Do not fool yourself otherwise. This is a prison. One meant to keep outcasts like us away."

 _Outcasts._  Tron's disdain for the word seemed to grow every time he said it.

"Orphans. Rebels. Unwanted. Misplaced. Broken. Neglected. That is what they all call us right? And this is where they wish us to remain…hidden, forgotten, tossed aside to crawl and beg in their waste and filth."

Orion did nothing to argue. As much as he wished otherwise, he knew his friend was right. In Cybertron's elaborate caste system every sentient being had a place, a designation, a purpose they were assigned since the moment they first went online. But they did not. They weren't even enough to be considered part of the system. They were just outcasts, orphans, unwanted, and unseen.

Orion suddenly felt very conscious of the blank space on his right shoulder panel. Every Cybertronian acknowledged by the system had a specific symbol embedded onto their shoulder panel the moment they came online. The symbol represented the caste the bot was born into. Orion knew the symbols by heart; he looked at them each time he and Tron would sneak into the landing docks to see the various travelers coming to and through the major cities.

The miners would have an image of two hammers while the artisans showed off their complicated symbol of twisting circles and triangles. The architects had their image of four arcs and a citadel, paying homage to the great achievements of their caste. The dockworkers had a symbol which appeared like a simple line with blocks laid up on top. The few teachers who passed by had an image of a circle surrounded by flames. There was even a time when a group of seekers came by, the tip of their mighty wings sporting the image of seeker wings over a star.

Every caste had their own unique sigil to wear on their shoulders to show their work and dedication to their assigned place in society. The same sigil was also worn on a small space upon their chassis to show how their caste was an integral part of their identity, as inseparable to them as their own spark. Everyone, no matter how low in the system, had a sigil to wear and a caste to claim acceptance with. Except for the ones like Orion and Tron.

It was a simple fact that was droned into them since they could function…the cold fact that their world was a cruel and bitter place. In a starving world where rank and status meant everything there could be no place for compassion. Especially for orphans.

Few things remained sacred and dear to the dying race, and the creation of sparklings was chief among the few joys the lower castes dared to afford. And with the All-spark lost in the shadows of history, the only way left to save their dwindling race was through spark merging. It was beautiful and revered thing, this practice of combining sparks to bring forth a unique soul into existence. For the two creators a sparkling was more than just a mere offspring. A sparkling was the living embodiment of their connection with each other, a creation born from two souls that treasured each other. And with the creation of a sparkling came the inevitable bond between a family unit.

It was the family bonds that fascinated Orion. He asked about it once to one of the femmes at the shelter. She looked at him with both surprise and pity, and simply told him that such a bond was difficult to explain, that one would have to be part of a family unit to understand what it felt like. Her words were crueler than she intended. Orion wondered if he would ever know such a bond. He wondered if he did feel a bond like that before he was orphaned. He tried to recall it, but his memory banks revealed nothing.

All he knew about his past was based on what he was told. He was a helpless sparkling when they found him abandoned in the dark wilderness of Burthov, crippled and nearly blind from lack of energon. The shelter nursed him back to health and ever since then the shelter was all he knew. And although the other bots were tolerant of him, some of them even kind; he could still feel their hesitant, prying gazes analyzing his every move. He often wondered if those looks were born of pity or distrust or both. To most, an orphan was a disturbing sight to see. There were always questions that came with an orphan. Where did they come from? Who were the creators? Who did they take after? What caste did they belong to? Why are they alone? And those were questions that Orion had no answers to.

A gentle servo on the side of his helm broke his thoughts.

"Brother." Tron's words broke Orion's thoughts, "Stop staring at my shoulder. The empty space means nothing."

Orion nodded. He couldn't admit it to Tron for fear of sounding too sentimental, but he felt a great deal of security whenever he called him "brother". And although they were in no ways related, Tron would probably be the only sense of family he would have. Just as the shelter was probably the only existence he'll ever know.

He tried to recall a time before the shelters, before Tron…but he could remember nothing. To Orion the past wasn't filled with golden ages, powerful dynasties, or anything grand and wonderful. For him the past was dark, frightening, and cold. And through it all Tron had been his constant companion. In truth, Tron was the only constant thing in his life. Famines, ice storms, and raids came and went; bots were born and off-lined all around him, leaders came and went, promises were made and broken but though all the hopes and disappointments, Tron was there.

Orion couldn't remember a past without him. He couldn't fathom a future without him either.

"It just doesn't seem right," Orion said, touching the blank space over his friend's shoulder. "Every sentient being in Cybertron has one. You're sentient. Something has to be there."

"There are no sigils for the likes of us. They made that perfectly clear."

"You always tell me that we're different. That we're better," Orion replied, backing away from him, "If there are no symbols made for us, perhaps we can make our own."

"And what would that symbol be?" Tron asked.

"I haven't thought that far yet," The younger bot admitted. He shrugged and smiled. "But I'll work on the design."

"Just like you worked on my name?" Tron said. Orion didn't know how to respond to that.

Although they were both among the orphans it was obvious that Orion was the clear favorite. The caretakers even bothered giving him a name, a decent one in fact. Others were not so fortunate. Nameless sparkling orphans remained just that, nameless. Creators traditionally would be the ones to bestow the names of their offspring, expressing a certain quality or ability their creation possessed. The sparkling would be trained to recite their name, their lineage and their caste, honing them to acknowledge and remember their place in society. A true-born name was more than a part of one's individuality; it was also a declaration of one's status and power. A name was something you lived and died with. And it was something that until recently Tron did not possess.

It was a cruel and favorite game among the orphans to give names to each other. One youngling could go through a dozen new names each breem. New names were always being tossed and given, most of them mean and crass and none of them actually sticking. Arf-biter, Scarpslinger, Foulpipe, Bitbrain, Crackshot, Pitspawn, to mention the nicer ones they came up with. Tron was called some of the viler names, never to his face of course, but it was no secret how the others spoke wickedly against him. And although Tron didn't seem to be hurt by their thoughtlessness, Orion was.

Orion did not find pleasure in the ridicule or pain of others. That compassionate aspect of his character seemed so strange and foreign in the starving wasteland. But as incompatible as his nature was to the wilderness, it was not entirely unwelcomed. His kindness was often taken advantage of by others, his willingness to help the weak and wounded making him susceptible to the taunts and bullying of stronger mechs. But they would either be silenced or broken whenever Tron entered the scene. Orion was grateful for his watchful optic and the protection he wordlessly offered. And so it was Orion who also called him Tron, finally finding a name he could honorably use. It was a good and decent name, strong and resolute like the silver youngling. But even though Tron accepted the name, Orion could sense it wasn't enough for him, as if he was meant to be called something greater.

"We will work on it together," Orion answered.

"Like everything else."

They fell into a comfortable silence afterwards, listening to the sound of rain tapping above their tents. Orion snuck a glimpse beyond his companion's shoulders to see if he could view the docks. The thick darkness and smoke from distant battles created a heavy veil on the horizon, blocking the docks from sight. Orion pulled himself closer against the gate, closer towards Tron's frame. The rain was growing heavier, the sting of the corrosive fluid splattering onto his pedals and servos. He ignored the slight pain. Instead he thought of what they would do once the rain cleared. Perhaps they could go back to the docks to see what new cargo the ships brought in.

He loved sneaking off to the landing docks with Tron, partially from the thrill of escaping the shelters for a day with the constant threat of being caught. But most of his joy came from seeing all the different kinds of mechs that would go to and from the ships and all the wares they brought with them. He saw all sorts of strange, quirky machinery and contraptions he never imagined before when the inventors passed by. On occasion he even saw Cybertronians of the higher castes descending from the ship like gods with a parade of servants carrying tightly sealed vessels that he assumed were filled to the brim with energon. He heard politicians and artisans debate over the latest news, listened to historians recite ancient poetry, watched as performers spun tales of far-ago heroes, and marveled at the voyagers who eagerly shared stories of their journeys through Cybertron. Orion loved the stories of the voyagers the most. It reminded him that there was more to the world than the confines of the shelter, that there was something grand beyond these makeshift gates. So whenever the chance rose to go off to the docks, he could take it. They provided him a precious glimpse of the outside world. A world he hoped to see with Tron.

"I wish it didn't rain tonight," Orion said, allowing his thoughts to wander, "I would have liked to see the stars before recharging."

"The stars will be in the same place you last saw them," Tron replied, "They're not going anywhere."

"Can you imagine what it's like Tron?" Orion asked. He lifted his blue optics. The sky was swollen with clouds, yet he could picture in his mind the various patterns of the stars he observed since he was a sparkling.

"Imagine what?"

"The sun," The red and blue youngling answered, "Can you imagine how warm it must feel? Imagine bringing a star close enough so this world can finally live again."

"Not even the high council knows how to do that." Tron said, his tone edged with disdain. "And I doubt that the great Sentinel Prime, leader of Cybertron, head of the High Council, keeper and protector of the law, and the last descendent of the mighty Dynasty of Primes could even think to bring a star close to us if the plans were drawn out for him. The old fool refuses to see how the masses suffer beneath him. How could he even consider the stars above him?"

"Careful." Orion warned, "Treacherous words will throw you out of the shelters for good, if not killed. And no matter how much you disagree with his policies, Sentinel is still our Prime—"

"Prime is just another hollow honorific. It's as hollow as an empty gun. Useless and dead." Tron said, making no quiver or movement that revealed fear, if he had any. "The true Primes died ages ago, if they ever existed. Sometimes I wish they still did. Maybe we'd be better off then."

"They're just stories,"

"Stories are the only thing aside from energon that keeps this world running." Tron said, "Right now that's all we have...and each other."

There was something different in how he spoke the last few words. He spoke them with a measure of greed, like losing either one was not even an option. Tron always gave an aura of protection and safety around Orion, but now the younger mech sensed something was changing.

"A part of those stories has to be true. It's why we hunger for something better than this." Tron continued, "Why a part of us knows that this existence was not how it was meant to be."

"Is that what you really believe brother?"

"I believe that I'm not going to live the rest of my life like worthless tin. The rest can rust and die here. But I won't."

It is said that we are drawn to those who emanate the qualities we wish for ourselves. If that saying was true then no one was more drawn to Tron than Orion was. Out of anyone else he'd met, Tron was among the few to voice out his discontent, and probably the only one to act on it. Tron had the mind to think for himself and the courage to speak his beliefs regardless of the consequences. He was cunning for his age, ruthless in his methods, and quick in his actions. He had the ambition for something greater, and the strong will to reach for it. Orion saw in Tron the direction and leadership he did not see even in the caretakers of the shelters. Tron had a vision, a hope that Orion desperately wanted to share.

"Those stars you love watching…we'll have them all one day, and the worlds spinning around them." Tron said, "The storm clouds veil them now, but one day, they will be ours."

"And what exactly are we going to do with those stars and planets?" Orion leaned closer to him. The bars of the gate between them were cold to the touch, but he reached out when Tron drew close.

"Whatever we want," The silver mech smiled. Orion returned the gesture.

"And if they have living creatures?"

"We're not Primes. Does it matter?"

Orion remembered the tales of the once majestic Dynasty. They were the crown creations of Primus himself, a chosen line given the power and authority to rule over every Cybertronian, a lineage bound by no command except the will of Primus.

"The circle of Primes," Orion said, conjuring the image of the infamous constellation in his mind, "They say that Primus fashioned a circle of stars over the northern horizon of Cybertron in honor of the greatest Primes, a star for each noble leader. But when one of the Primes rebelled, betrayed and killed his brothers, one of the stars fell, crashing onto the surface of this planet to create the wastelands. Afterwards the Dynasty fell, fading into legend. I don't know why…but it's tragic to think how an entire empire could be undone by one mech's betrayal."

"Obviously family meant nothing to them. Those Primes betrayed and butchered each other no differently from their spark-sworn enemies." Tron replied, "But it will never happen to us."

And Orion believed him. In spite of the warnings his guardians would give him, in spite of their constant remarks of how Tron was manipulative and destructive, Orion could not turn away from the promises he offered. Orion was told how Tron cared for no one but himself, that the silver mech would abandon him once his usefulness was worn out, and that there was no honor to be found in him. But in the midst of smoke, ash, and darkness, huddled beneath a makeshift tent with metal bars separating them...Orion knew he could not abandon Tron. No matter what else he may be called he was still his friend and ally. Orion needed something to believe in, and he believed in Tron.

"Brother, the rain is increasing. If you run quickly they may still let you in. You should go." Tron said, "They will be looking for their favorite."

"I'm afraid of the darkness." Orion replied, "I'm staying here with you."

For once Tron did not argue.

In truth it was Tron who disliked the darkness and the cold. He hated not knowing what waited in the shadows of smoke and night. His fear was an unspoken secret between them. Orion respected him enough to pretend it was his own fear to spare him insult.

"And even if I get pass the darkness the other younglings may find me before I reach the caretakers." Orion confessed his true worries, "The ones you fought with earlier may not welcome me too kindly."

"I may not be of the warrior caste. I have no weapons except my own strength and no power except my own mind. But I will be your guard, Orion, against them and anyone else." The silver mech did not look him in the optics as he spoke. But Orion could sense the tension in his words. His friend had no need to affirm their loyalties to each other, and Orion wondered why he chose to say all this now.

"I've fought them all before and I will do it again." Tron continued. He spoke quietly, yet the words resounded so deeply that Orion felt them in his own spark. "If they rise against you I will be there to tear them apart until they can stand no more. And I will remain your defender and champion for as long as I'm needed."

Tron rarely showed tenderness or affection to anyone, his energies reserved for more aggressive and violent pursuits. But now Orion felt something change between them, something that drew them together, a new force that was deeper than the friendship they shared. Orion wanted to ask what he meant by such words, but he feared the answers. Orion decided to ignore it, owing the strange connection to the smoke and ash falling around them, fooling his sensors into registering things that weren't there.

"Champion?" Orion said. He laughed as he tried to lighten the energies around them, his young voice soft and gentle. "Am I the cause you fight for then?"

"I will fight for you and everyone else who is oppressed by his corrupt regime." Tron answered, "I do not know when or how but we will be free. When the opportunity comes I will seize it. Not only for myself but for...for every one like us."

Orion wanted to see him face to face but his oldest friend kept his helm turned away. He wondered what the mech could possibly want to hide. It was strange to think that Tron would have anything to be ashamed of, for in Orion's mind he was everything the rest of the world was not…honest, courageous, and strong. Everything Orion couldn't be, Tron was. And the younger mech adored him for it. Orion knew that no matter what his shortcomings, his respect and love for Tron could never waver, so why would the mech turn away from him now?

"If you are my champion…" Orion said, "Then what will I be?"

Tron looked at him then. His optics glowed fiercely in the dark, like burning stars against his silver face

"Whatever you wish." Tron answered.

Orion found his happiness in the fire and life he saw in those red depths, bright with assurance of the strength he so admired. He never felt as strong as when Tron was right beside him, and he was thankful that he couldn't remember a time before their friendship.

He thought of the silver mech's answer, searching within himself a reply to sum up everything he wanted to say…all the thanks, love, and loyalty he owed his oldest and dearest friend. Finally he nodded and leaned in.

"I'll be whoever you need me to be." Orion said. He rested his helm to where Tron's shoulder would have been had the gate not been between them. To his relief Tron did not turn away.

A silence settled between them. The corrosive rain continued to pour. The fluid bit away parts and pieces of their makeshift tents, a few drops straying to splash and stings their frames. Both of them bared the pain together, neither wanting to appear weak in front of the other.

"The darkness feels deeper tonight." Tron said. He kept one of his servos over the wound he received from his earlier fight, forcing himself from revealing any pain. Orion stirred and sat up. He tried to look at his friend's injuries, but the older mech simply moved away. Orion didn't press the matter. Pride was always something Tron could never let go of, but Orion still felt the need to give him some comfort.

"If the darkness is deep," Orion said, "Then I'll be your light."

Orion knew it was foolish to waste his energy, especially with the energon supplies so low, yet he did it anyways. He shut down the parts of himself he didn't immediately need and focused his energy on creating light. A soft blue glow surrounded him, shining from his optics and between the plates of his frame. It was a skill he was warned not to use for the side effects of prolonged use and energon demand. But he honestly thought it was a small exchange for the protection and friendship returned to him.

"Rest well brother." Orion said gently, "The darkness will pass and I will be here when you awake."

They exchanged no more words after that. The night wore on and the rain softened and trickled into a faint mist. And through it all, Orion's blue light shone in the darkness. After some time the red and blue youngling finally slipped into recharge himself, his systems exhausted and craving for more energon. He would feel the crunching pain of hunger when he awoke. But the feeling was a welcomed part of existence. The pain assured him that he was still alive and functioning. And he was determined to stay alive, at least long enough to see Tron's ambitions fulfilled. He didn't know how or when, but he knew that his friend would have his victory in the end. And he would be right there to share in his triumph as he now shared in his suffering.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rant away to thy heart's content. Just press the review button and let me know what you think.
> 
> As you can see, I added a bunch of stuff regarding their culture, especially when it pertains to their myths about the Primes. Please don't come after me with your fusion canons and bombs! It's just a bit of creative license *hides* And apparently it does rain on Cybertron, as indicated by the first pages of Dark of the Moon: Foundation, so yay!
> 
> If they come across as a bit OOC have no fear. People...err, mechs change. And believe me these two are in for quite a change. And we get more of Megatron's perspective in the next chap :)


	3. Departure from Burthov

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time units used in the fic are as follows. These measurements are from the IDW publishing and Marvel comics continuities. I arranged them by continuity on my profile page, but here I just arranged them by time duration.
> 
> Klik=1.2 minutes  
> Breem= 8.3 minutes  
> Cycle= 1.25 hours  
> Mega-cycle=93 hours  
> Deca-cycle= 3 weeks  
> Stellar cycle= 7.5 months  
> Meta-cycle=13 months  
> Vorn= 83 years

Many vorns passed since that night when two younglings, hungry with dreams and ambition, braved the darkness and rain together.

The past vorns were not kind to Burthov, just as the desolate land showed no kindness to its inhabitants and just as the inhabitants shared no kindness with each other. The miserable terrain cracked and shifted through the years, deepening the great ravines and canyons. The shelter itself expanded over that time, not by design, but through necessity. As the years went on, more and more numbers came into Burthov, refugees of an unspoken war of power between the ruling castes. Clustered patches of make-shift camps stationed themselves around the shelter, their members being those who fled from hostile political schemes of the greater castes. Although they escaped the brewing political rivalries of the city, the new inhabitants did not leave behind their superior caste mentality. If anything being close to the dreaded outcasts only fueled their prejudice and hate.

The artisans would stay with their kind and associate only with those who were considered equal or greater than them. The scholars, architects, and others would act the same way. Even though they all hungered, feared, and despaired alike their proud sparks could never acknowledge the pain of another caste. They refused to see how they all froze and died together in the same desolate wilderness. Although far from the original homes and stripped of any power, their caste sigils would still be displayed proudly. Some even went so far as to fight and kill should their symbols be dishonored.

It wasn't a world suited for happiness. It was a world growing mindlessly desperate, hungry, and willing to kill whatever parts could be spared for the survival of the strong. Even if there was a tiny measure of joy to experience, there would always be a price to pay for it. And as of now, no one knew that more than Orion.

The once gentle, patient, generous youngling was now sorting through the last of his meager belongings, clearing away the corner of the shelter he used as a berth for as long as he could remember. There was no real berth to speak off, just a bare floor with a few objects he gathered through the years. Yet it ached to see it so empty now. He carefully gathered his possessions, glancing at them with a sad smile. There was the shard he would use to practice carving inscriptions on the ravine walls, an old data pad of Cybertronian maps, and a small case filled with figurines. They were nothing extraordinary in the optics of others, but to him they carried the fondest memories of his life thus far. And he wouldn't be allowed to take them where he was going.

"I almost regret asking the docks if they needed any help,"

Orion turned to see the shelter's elderly caretaker wobble towards him, the old mech's smiled just as crooked as before. Orion stepped towards him to assist should he fall, but the elder just shooed him away with a stubborn wave of his servo.

"Oh stop that young one, before I change my mind and refuse to let you go." The old green bot said, "Now if they give you any trouble at the docks you can come right back here alright? Though I really hope you won't."

"You won't miss me then?" Orion asked. With his belongings secured on one arm, he offered the other for the old one to take. "And here I thought I was your favorite."

Gently he helped guide the caretaker out of the corner. Together they walked through the shelters, each of them enjoying what little time they had left to be like this. There was a heavy prang of guilt within Orion, knowing that this could very well be the final walk he would take with his old guardian. The elder had been more than kind with him through the years. He'd given him a name, a home, and now a way to escape.

"You'll always be my favorite," The green bot said. His age showed with each creak his tired frame made. With a half-working optic the elder looked at the youngling, "But in all honesty Orion, I would give up my old spark to never see your face ever again! And you better do your best work over there at the docks. I had to haggle and negotiate with those stubborn workers to get you a place out there. Wasn't easy, you being…well, an outcast and all. I had to sing your praises to the heavens and barter with them until their audios broke. They expect a lot from you, so don't you dare make me look bad!"

"I don't think anything I do will make you look any worse." Orion joked. The green elder just grumbled in reply.

"Well then. If you're going to be rude then I might as well send you off right now. Quickly, before you or  _anyone_  else changes your mind."

From his peripheral vision, Orion saw glimpses of mechs watching them. He felt their jealous glares blaring right at him. It was a familiar feeling, and it only intensified when news went out that he, a poor orphaned outcast was chosen to become a dock worker. It was among the most menial of jobs, a low level of the caste system that most of society would shun away. Life at the dock guaranteed difficult, continuous, and dangerous work that offered no prestige or pleasure. Yet for someone born with no lineage, the thought of bearing the sigil of even the lowest castes seemed like a dream. So when the caretakers managed to convince the docks to take in a young mech from the shelters there was no question on who should go.

"May I ask a question sir?" Orion said.

"Always was the polite one. I'll miss that greatly you know," The caretaker replied, "Very well then, what is it?"

"Of all the other mechs and femmes begging to be let out of here…" Orion asked, "Why me?" It bothered him ever since the offer was made. It was no secret that every sane bot wanted a chance out of the shelters if it meant they'll end up in a better place. The docks fell far from the grandeur of the Iacon palaces. But to the hordes of starving outcasts, life on those docks seemed like paradise.

"Well that's simple! You're my favorite. Can't let you rust away here like the rest of us. There's too much up here to just go to waste." The little bot reached up to pat Orion's blue helm, "Pity really, you could have been more suited for better work, an archivist's assistant perhaps. The old rumors must be true then, that Primus is either dead or asleep. If he were still awake he would have placed you where you're truly meant to be."

"Perhaps he did." Orion said. His blue optics looked up at the dark sky, recognizing the familiar stars and recalling the stories of their maker. For some reason he felt frightened by the thought that some deity was truly responsible for his fate. "Maybe I shouldn't go. There are stronger bots that could provide better service to the docks. Perhaps I'm meant to stay here."

"Where'd you get that idea now? Been listening to that blasted friend of yours again? Tron was it?" The old one swatted Orion's arm, shaking his rickety helm in mock disappointment. His weak sensors failed notice how Orion's optics darkened at the sound of Tron's name, or how the usually gentle servos tightened with silent anger.

"But I never asked to leave." Orion said. He forced his voice to remain calm and even, "And Tron has nothing to do with this."

"And I hope it stays that way," The caretaker sighed, the heavy air heaving through his vents, "Listen to this if you don't listen to anything else Orion. That would-be rebel has weighed you down for too long. The older the two of you get the wilder and more…well…aggressive he gets."

"Only because of me," Orion said, instantly regretting it. The old mech simply rolled his optics, wondering how Primus could be cruel to fashion such mindless loyalty into Orion.

"You were not responsible for all those fights he started and mechs he hurt." The caretaker replied, "It doesn't matter if he did it to protect you or whatever other reason he may have. Tron had a choice. And he always chose to exert himself through violence. And it terrifies us how you continued to associate yourself with him. Orion, please, if you're having second thoughts about leaving because of him—"

"He hasn't spoken to me. Not since the news broke out that I was to become a dock worker." Orion said, his voice carefully concealing the anger within him. His blue helm looked down at the dry earth, as if it could ease his frustrations, "I tried to speak with him. Every time he just walks away. Tron never walks away from anything or anyone. He confronts problems so easily and yet with me…"

"He was never worth your concern. And I pray…I plead to Primus that whatever tiff there is going on between you to never resolves itself. Usually I like to see quarreling bots make amends, but in your case I'll make a serious exception. You've made excuses for him for far too long. He's already distanced himself. Now sever your ties for good. See over there?"

The elder pointed towards the distance. Beyond the wilderness littered with camps, the docks of Burthov awaited. When he was a very small youngling, Orion would love sneaking off to explore the docks with Tron. It was their glimpse into the greater world and all the possibilities that awaited them. Now, it was to become his new home. A home completely apart from his life at the shelters and from Tron.

"Your future is there," The caretaker said sternly, nodding towards the horizon, "Not here. Not with him." Weakly he turned to face Orion, hoping that the young mech would heed his words.

They stood in silence. Whatever emotions Orion felt at his words were carefully concealed, those bright blue optics staring at the possessions he carefully held. The caretaker concentrated on hearing Orion's voice that he never noticed how dearly the young one held those objects, as if they were alive and speaking to him. They were just trinkets from his childhood, cherished and precious to him. But the age of childhood was fast ending, and Orion both feared and longed for the change.

"I will be forever grateful to you. For everything." Orion said, wishing he knew what to say to make the elder understand, "And I will never forget this place…my home."

"Maybe it's best if you do. Just put all this in the past and begin your life anew." The caretaker replied. He straightened up as much as his ill-maintained body would allow, "Now then, are you all set for your departure? Time will be here before you know it."

"Not yet. I have one last task to finish," Orion answered, "A few goodbyes to say."

"Very well," The caretaker said, knowing full well where Orion was off to, "But be careful. No place is safe anymore. Be on your guard. Stay alert. Do not go off into paths where your signal can't be traced."

"As always,"

"And I'll meet you right here when you're done," The old one cackled, his dirty, dented helm shaking from the coarse laughter, "I'd have to see for my own optics that you'll be on the road to those damned docks. And I'll blot the gates shut so you'll never come back."

"As you wish," Orion replied with smile and polite bow, "Sir."

The ancient mech swatted the young one away, threatening to change his mind about letting Orion leave if he kept stirring up sentiments. Orion just waved at him before cruising away, straight into the camps and further off into the deep ravines that cracked along the outskirts of the shelters. Before he disappeared from sight Orion stopped to wave once more at his guardian, and he felt the weight of realty sink in as the little green bot waved back. Soon, very soon, they would be saying their final goodbyes, Orion thought sadly. He watched as his old caretaker vanished from sight, probably off to scold mischievous sparklings again or grumble about missing energon cubes. Orion waited til there was no sign of the elder watching him, and then he proceeded to fulfill his final task, fond memories of the old kindly mech recollecting in his mind.

Orion never thought that instant would be the last time he'd see him alive.

As he made his way through the encampments surrounding the shelter, it was evident that something strange was nearing. Orion could feel it resonate within his spark, a strange unexplainable dread that made his strides more urgent, more careless. He felt as if his systems were trying to warn him of some upcoming danger, as if some great threat was about to befall him. The young mech tried to ignore it, reasoning with himself that it was just anxiety over leaving the only home he knew. And perhaps he was right, maybe that was all it was.

His thoughts were broken when a crowd of younger bots zipped past him, nearly knocking the possessions from his arms. One of the sparklings looked at him with wide, excited optics, her raspy vocals cracking.

"Architects," She said quickly before disappearing to catch up with the others, "Engraving."

The cables throughout Orion's frame cringed. The first time he saw an engraving ceremony he barely kept his fuel tanks from purging. The sight was engrained into his memory banks, right along with how Tron finally led him away before he could see the final results of the branding. It disturbed him to see such young sparklings eager to see it for themselves.

He made his way quickly through the camps, first to reach his destination faster and second to not upset the tenants. Even though they were doomed to live in the wilderness, the caste mentality remained entrenched in every processor. The artisans would clear away from his path just so they wouldn't catch the dust as he walked by, immediately clearing out the dirt that may have marked their precious banners that proudly displayed the sigil of their caste. The de-commissioned soldiers would come out of their shelters and stand by, watching him go with skeptical, paranoid stares that made him wish he could transform into an alt mode so he could speed away.

It was then that Orion realized how close he was to actually getting an alt mode. The thought both frightened and excited him. Alt modes were designated according to a mech's duty. Being an outcast he was denied of ever scanning and attaining one, although he was perfectly capable of doing so. Transforming into alt modes was simply a basic function even outcasts were denied, having no purpose or responsibilities. But soon, very, very soon, he would finally be able to transform and experience the sensation of swift, precise, change. Life at the docks would make sure of it.

A loud clanging noise rang through the air, alerting the audios of every bot within the artisan camp. A rush of spectators gathered around a risen platform. The platform rose up from the ground; the odd structure composed of twisting metal bent to appear like a claw reaching up towards the sky. And atop that altar-like platform, a sparkling sat. She was a tiny femme less than half of Orion's age, with brilliant yellow optics that shone vibrantly against the ugly shadows surrounding her. Within a klik those innocent optics shook, frantically searching for some way to escape. The crowd was gathering, forming a thick wall of spectators, all eager to see the ceremony many outcasts were forbidden from experiencing themselves.

The femme's optics caught sight of Orion, and for an instant they saw each other, both afraid and helpless to change what was to come.

A large, slender mech walked from the crowd towards the platform. His colors and figure resembled the sparkling. They looked very much alike, from the coloring to the shape of their helms to the designs of their armor. The only jarring difference being that the creator bore the sigil of the architects proudly on his chest and shoulders while his daughter did not. The little one's creator reached out his elegant servos, his long fingers wrapped around a blade. It was pointed to perfection and glowed from furious heat. The sparkling was shaking, torn between its instinct to escape pain and its trust in her creator.

"Primus please," Orion whispered. He never saw an image of the so-called deity, nor did he know if a god would listen to one of his station. And still he tried, for the sparkling's sake, "Let it be quick."

The other architects rose up, signifying their support of imprinting another bot into their caste. It was a legacy she inherited from her creators, and one she would carry over her spark for the rest of her existence. The blue mech bowed in response. He reached out, firmly grasping his creation as the blade hovered above her. The sparkling appeared to calm down beneath her creator's touch, accepting the comfort of his presence.

Orion could barely see through the mechs and femmes that pushed themselves ahead of him to get a better look. But he could hear perfectly. And what he heard sent chills all over his sensory network.

"By our vision we fashion the world." The blue mech said proudly, reciting the old proclamation of his caste, an unmoving pledge handed down through each generation.

The scorching blade slowly descended. The sparkling clicked and beeped, pulling and hugging one of her creator's fingers for comfort. For a moment the mech's faceplates revealed a twinge of regret. The moment was over as the mech whispered something to his young. Orion watched, transfixed as the mech carefully restrained her, turning her optics towards the crowd.

"By our vision we fashion the world!"

The blue architect repeated, this time bolder, the pride and determination painfully clear through his vocals. He raised the blade.

"By our designs empires rise!"

The blade slid against the fragile armor. The hot, orange, yellow glow spread across the sparkling's chest plate, the cut clearly going deeper than it should. The blue mech did not stop. He continued to imprint the sigil onto the little femme's armor. The crowds watched, some in approval others in horror, and all in fascination. All Orion could focus on was the sparkling's face as she looked up at her creator. The sparkling's cry was spark-wrenching in its silence. Her face plates were contorted, screaming without sound, optics hot and glistening as her frame struggled to be still in spite of the pain. Her body heaved and stiffened, all her energies and programs fighting to stay in place to fulfill the demands of her caste.

Orion could look at her no more. He watched as the femme's father continued, the slender mech working carefully to perfect the mark which inflicted so much pain. There was no malice or indifference in his face; rather it was a reflection of his own creation's agony. Orion was transfixed by it all. He never experienced the feeling shared through a family bond, but he heard of it and very rarely witnessed its effects. That moment was one of those rare times. At every engraving ceremony, the pain was shared. And Orion both pitied and envied her. She had a creator. She had a name and lineage sealed with a symbol to declare her place in this world.

It might have been hours or a minute later, but eventually the blade stopped its work, the creator looked to the crowd, and the sparkling rose. Wisps of smoke twirled above the femme, rising from her freshly etched emblem. Her face was weary, still, and solemn. If she was in pain she had enough courage to conceal it; or maybe, Orion thought, all the pain had been ripped from her. The femme stood on her own, her servos flinching, smoke puffing out of her chest and shoulders. The once plain surfaces now displayed the same image. Four arcs and a citadel. It was the timeless masterpiece of the architect caste, and some would say the very crown of Cybertron.

The sparkling began to speak, softly at first and then escalating with the cheers of her welcoming caste. It sounded like a chant. She declared her name, her lineage, and the caste proclamation her creator recited before cutting into her. As he listened to the words over and over Orion found himself wondering if anything really changed at all. She was still a child, one expected to be an architect.

"But what could she create in such a desolate land?" He wondered.

Shouts of congratulations rang out and Orion quickly went on his way, knowing better than to be caught in the middle of the celebration. On his way he heard the usual bantering, the daily grumbling and cursing that the other bots were so fond of. They spoke of the famines, the power shortage, the rumors that the land would soon burst and swallow the shelters whole. Others spoke of energon. They always talked about energon. Even those bots that didn't speak spent their days thinking about it. There were rumors that the upper castes were struggling to keep their stores in check. Others claimed that riots already broke out in Iacon. More rumors claimed that the miners finally killed their officers and crawled out of their underground prison just to have their helms blown to bits by waiting guards. Others would state the opposite, that Iacon was full of energon and progress. Orion recalled how a small group of bots left the shelters to seek opportunities at Iacon. None of them came back. Either Iacon was such a flourishing paradise that they didn't need to return, or they died on their way. Orion hoped it was the better fate.

The clouds were thick and dark when he reached the ravine. Here, the dense camps broke into smaller units. The cracks on the ground were too perilous for most bots to navigate through but Orion found his balance quickly. He had this land, as ugly and broken as it was, memorized. The further down the crevices one goes, the darker and wider the spaces became, branching into a complicated network of passages that extends for miles. The earth around him was witness to his time growing up. Here's where he hid when other bots were chasing him. Here's where Tron would find him after fighting them. Here's where they ran, schemed, and thought of all the things they could accomplish if they were anyone else. And here's where he would say goodbye.

"Tron!" Orion ran to his old friend.

Tron ignored him, his red optics fixed on the wall of rock he was smashing with his fists.

"What are you doing?" Orion swatted Tron's servos away, "You'll injure yourself. You can't afford that." With careful grace he inspected the silver claws. They were cracked, chipped, and dented but they never looked more dangerous than now. Orion knew the reason why Tron's servos were so damaged. It was the price for his skills as a fighter, created by years of struggling with rival bots and digging through the ravines for safety after he was finally thrown out of the shelters.

"The medical supplies I gave you last time," Orion said, undaunted by Tron's heated gaze, "Have they all been spent? Tron…"

Tron replied by pulling his servos out of Orion's grasp, pushing him roughly as he walked towards another slab of rock. His silver face was still and cold as he punched the rock continuously, the fury he couldn't express through words manifesting in every harsh jab and hit. When Tron was angry, it was evident. He had no talent for hiding his emotions. He spoke his mind like there would be no consequence; he vented his anger and hate so effortlessly on others but with Orion he was different. With Orion his anger was quiet, torturous with apparent indifference.

"Will you say anything?" Orion tried again, "If you won't speak then at least stop. Your servos—"

"Have done worse." Tron replied, his voice deep, smooth, and unnervingly calm.

The rock crumbled and burst with each strike. Tron was always a ferocious youngling, and now he was even more fearsome as a near-full grown mech. While Orion was fortunate enough to have decent upgrades, Tron had to make the modifications himself. As his basic protoform grew in height, build, and strength, his old frame needed to be reconstructed to adjust. So he went about stripping off old, undersized armor and replacing it with larger, sturdier patches of scrap. He looked like a mess. But even in his miserable state there was no mocking the brutal power he possessed. He would use his growing strength to threaten and hurt anyone who wished ill on Orion. He gifted them with mysterious wounds that would restraint them from harming Orion while often times sporting a few unexplained injuries of his own.

"Tron stop!" Orion said, realizing with dread that his friend wasn't simply crushing the rock surface, "Why are you doing this? We were children when we started these. Stop!"

Tron ignored him and kept slamming his fists against the rock, smashing away the drawings etched on the surface. Those were the pictures they drew together as younglings, back when things were simple, before they knew any better. It started one day after they returned from visiting the docks. They argued about something a merchant said about one of the city-states, neither of them could agree on how Vos was actually described. So Orion took a random shard of stone, burnt the tip and began to draw Vos as he imagined it. Tron added or scratched out whatever wasn't to his taste. And so began their practice of imagining and drawing the great cities of Cybertron.

The illustrations covered this area of the ravine, ranging from images of ordinary life to depictions of legends they heard as children. Orion once heard that special artisans were commissioned to carve scripts and images in the halls of councilmen and nobles, and he would find great joy pretending he was one of those artists. Only while those artists illustrated the past, he envisioned the future. And Tron indulged in his silly fantasy. The illustrations told their story, a vision of their world as they desperately wished it would be. It was, in every sense, their life's work….the collection of their wonders, fears, and dreams. And now Tron was determined to destroy it.

Orion didn't know what to say. He could read Tron so easily, the years making him familiar to his friend's varying emotions. Until recently. Ever since it was revealed that Orion would become a dock worker, Tron rarely spoke to him. And Orion knew it was out of spite. Few things hurt him deeper than Tron's silence.

"If you want to ruin the pictures," Orion threw the possessions he meant to give Tron to the ground, among them a set of figurines, "Then break these too. I can't take them where I'm going."

Tron stopped at once, a heavy servo drawn back and raised above Orion's head. The smaller mech nearly flinched but he stood his ground, blue optics bright, daring him to move. If there was one person who could ignite a fierce response from dear, sweet Orion, it was Tron. It was a curious thing really. While others trembled beneath the shadow of Tron's servos, it was where Orion found his courage.

"If you have no need for those pictures, then I have no need for any of these." Orion said. Only Tron heard him speak this way, so harsh, demanding, and hurtful. Only Tron knew that Orion was capable of more than kindness and compassion. And for some reason, Orion's anger seemed to soften Tron's own.

The larger, older mech slowly drew back, safely away from harming his only friend. His tired optics stared at the objects by his pedals. They were pathetic little things that were tokens of their friendship. The shard of stone that started the entire business of drawing in the ravines, the little figures they created in secret, the map of Cybertron that Tron stole. Orion recalled how they wasted the days moving their figurines along the map, pretending they were moving armies or building cities or whatever else they commanded their imaginary subjects to do. Those memories seemed a lifetime away.

"You lied to me." Tron didn't bother picking up the objects. His gaze was solely on Orion.

"I didn't lie." Orion was calmer now, hoping that Tron would follow suit, "I know this has to do with me leaving. I never lied to you about it. I just couldn't tell you immediately because I was unsure—"

"You kept it from me," Tron said, his voice lower, darker, yet it trembled, "I thought you valued promises more than this. Remember?

The sharp, jagged fingers of his servo dug deep into the rock, strangling an enemy that wasn't there. Orion wondered, with a slight hush of dread, if he would ever feel the strength that could crush rock into dust.

"Nothing happens to me without your knowledge. And nothing happens to you without mine." The debris slipped from Tron's claw, dry and lifeless, "And yet I find out that you're leaving from whispers and rumors."

Orion took a moment to regain his thoughts, to keep his emotions in line, careful not to set off something that would fuel Tron's anger. His brother was obviously distressed, but this time was different. It wasn't just anger or hurt. There was something else Tron was wrestling with, Orion wasn't sure what it was exactly and he wasn't sure if he was ready to find out.

"Brother," Orion said gently, trying to gain back Tron's confidence in him, "What other option do I have?"

"Is that all you base your decisions on?" Tron said, "What others say you can and cannot do? Accepting what others give instead of making them happen yourself?"

"What happened to you?" Orion couldn't remember an instance where Tron spoke so spitefully towards him, "Wasn't it you that told me I wasn't meant for this place? That I should be somewhere else? The chance is now mine. I would be a fool to decline it!"

Tron laughed, the sound closed and hallow.

"Is that really what all your ambition amounted to? To spend the rest of your existence laboring as a dock worker? Tell me, brother," Tron said as he scratched the rock walls deeply, "What do you really want?"

"You know the answer to that," Orion said, pointing to the ruined illustrations, "You've known since we were younglings. But I can't dwell on those things anymore. This opportunity is real. The docks are real. Our world is dying Tron. You can't possibly believe those dreams will carry on—"

"You know nothing of my dreams." Tron replied, "Or what I want."

"I have to leave. For both our sakes. There is no other choice—"

"There's always a choice!" The silver mech said, "It's the only thing we can truly control."

Orion didn't argue this time. He knew each word to be true, and his guilt faltered his strength. Instead of turning away he reached out, his careful servos touching Tron's battered claws. The silver mech did not pull away. The light of their optics fell when they realized the stark contrast of their hands. One pair was dark, brutal, jagged, and filthy from the earth while the other hands were gentle and kind.

"I chose to spoil you. All those years…" Tron said as Orion inspected his servos. His rough voice softened, revealing vulnerability known only to Orion.

"You did," Orion said. A sudden shot of dread swept through him realizing it would be centuries before he would feel those servos again, if ever; the servos that protected him and strove to ensure that he was never lacking. He held them tighter, "And you will always be my champion, brother."

"But you are no longer my light. How can you when you're so quick to abandon me?"

The edge in Tron's words felt like a blade against Orion's spark.

"It amazes me." Tron continued, "That even as you're ready to leave me here to rust in darkness I still—"

The words died out. Tron pulled away, his optics fierce with fire.

"I know," Orion said, understanding the words his brother couldn't say, "I always have. But if you really do care for me…if you truly want my happiness, then please brother, please wish me joy in this one small victory. Brother-"

"Do not call me that,"

Tron looked as if Orion struck him through the spark.

Orion was frozen. Calling Tron 'brother' was a source of comfort for him, and now to be deprived of that honor felt like he lost a piece of his own identity.

"I can't wish you joy. I have none left to spare." Tron sneered, his face full of menace, the red optics sharp against the dark metal planes.

The silver mech ran his claws over the rock, continuing his task of eradicating their childhood drawings.

"When you leave so will I." Tron said. Orion was taken aback by the declaration. Such words by an outcast were equal to a death-sentence.

"You can't!" Fear unlike any other seized Orion. Outcasts were mistreated in the shelters, but they absolutely deplored anywhere else. An outcast appearing anywhere within an established system would be targeted, abused, and often killed for sport. He heard horrid tales of outcasts being forced to satisfy secret, sick desires of corrupt city-state leaders, how some were forced to fight in gladiator pits or worse.

"There is nothing left here." Tron answered, "I only stayed for you. It may be dying, but this world is greater than this pathetic wilderness. Remember, Orion, how you once entertained me with your dreams of turning this wasteland into a thriving city? If you've given up on that I have no reason to stay. I wasted so much for your sake, only to have my sacrifice be tossed into the scrap heap. Very well then. Go. Leave! Maybe then you will finally learn to defend yourself instead of leeching on me like an ungrateful parasite!"

Orion tried to appear unfazed, even though within he was raging. It was true; he couldn't have survived this long without Tron to defend him. But he was far from being an ungrateful parasite. He was the one who tended to Tron's wounds, shared energon with, and offered light to when fear of darkness crippled him. And he never counted those times as payment for Tron's protection of him, he did it freely, believing that he could never repay his friend for all that he did. And now at last, Orion knew what Tron really saw him as…

"Farwell Tron. I thought you were better than this." Orion couldn't look at him anymore, "I still do."

"Only you would be foolish enough to believe that."

Orion drew a sharp breath and turned away in a kick of dust, refusing to look back as he crept out of the ravine. In his blind rage he never saw all the unbarred emotions Tron's optics conveyed. Orion did not see the intensity of his gaze, nor feel the furious blaze of a broken spark as it cried out for him to return.

* * *

Tron allowed the breams and cycles to slip by, each klik bringing him further from Orion. The separation was fresh, infuriating, and bitter. He went about his work smashing away the rocks, as if destroying their illustrations would somehow erase Orion from his past. Tron wondered what might have been if he just allowed Orion to die all those countless times...he would have been spared the joy and agony of knowing him. Maybe he wouldn't have been driven mad enough to strike at stones that couldn't fight back.

With a strong punch he cracked a huge slab right off the ravine wall, an entire drawing fell in one piece, unbroken from his efforts. He stopped, the memory returning to him as he inspected the picture. It was supposed to be a face of some unknown mech. It was composed of clean, straight lines, the mech's face sporting a strong nose between triangular optics. Above each optic were two lines, and at the top center of the head rested a larger triangle to act as a crest. The mouth was stern and stoic, and lines were cut straight down at the bottom of each optic til they reached the end of the face.

He remembered how Orion made fun of him when he drew it. He just shrugged and declared it to be the sigil he was working on for them. Since outcasts were denied the honor of having one he took it to himself to design one for him and Orion. The idea was to embed the symbol over every city they would eventually conquer (Tron's plan) or build (Orion's preference). He remembered how Orion would laugh in his usual good-natured way, remarking how ambitious his brother was…

"Brother." Tron scoffed. He hated that word, and with every year that passed his despise for it deepened. It may have been comforting and affectionate before, back when Orion was a helpless sparkling who clung to him like a shadow. But as time passed it felt more like boundary he wanted to tear down.

He looked further down the ravine, the walls a silent witness to their lives together.

"I do wish you joy," Tron admitted, though Orion would never hear it. The walls were full of the things Tron wished for him, "But not apart from me."

Selfish, yes, and hard to accept. He remembered how they would spend days creating murals of all the things Cybertron has to offer. Now those memories just seemed to taunt him. Childhood was gone, and with it the one who drove his ambitions.

Tron crushed the picture with a stomp of his pedal.

Before, he was more than willing to care for no one but himself, but Orion quickly changed those plans. Orion's constant presence brought direction to Tron's ambitions, flourishing and changing until they were more than just dreams of conquest and power. His desire for rebellion and revolution was fueled by Orion, though the younger mech was unaware of it. Tron could not watch Orion and believe that the system was right in condemning such a mech to a useless existence as an outcast. If the system was wrong in placing Orion, then what other failures did they have? For Megatron, it wasn't that difficult to see.

Orion was the one who saw possibilities, the world being their canvas to build and create. He fed Tron's hopes, hearing him when no one else would bother, and encouraging him though others deemed him a fool. For Orion to just suddenly leave him was tantamount to saying that Tron's hopes weren't worth it. Tron wondered if Orion simply just couldn't wait for him any longer. Tron felt the weight of his failures and fears slowly crushing them both as the hopeless vorns passed, and maybe that's why Orion finally left. Because he was a nothing. Because he wasn't enough.

And who was he anyways? He who had no decent name until Orion gave him one. His identity was rooted in being Orion's champion and defender, but now that was be taken from him too. He had nothing of his own to possess. Whatever he had he stole or created. The only thing he had to treasure was Orion.

Being accustomed to nothing, losing Orion shouldn't have affected him so deeply. But it did. Tron felt unneeded, lost, and completely alone. And he hated the feeling greater than anything else, that horrible sense of being so vulnerable and directionless. Even now, after the way Orion hurt him, his processors were scheming ways to get him back. Or maybe he wouldn't even need to. Maybe Orion would come to his senses and return. After all, the young bot could never survive without him.

But could he survive without Orion?

Tron's spark clenched as he imagined a life completely devoid of his friend. He found that he couldn't even entertain the thought. And it frightened him to realize that Orion meant that much to him, for once admitting that someone could have such a strong hold over him without even trying.

"Orion," Tron remained still, letting the name echo through the ravine as if it would summon him once more. The sound echoing back to him from the darkness made his world seem hollow and cold. The empty space beside Tron where Orion should have been became torturous to see, his own shadow the glaring reminder of his failures to keep the one thing he treasured.

Tron was ready to call Orion's name again when his sensors picked up strange, distant sounds. They were jumbled, fast, and growing louder with each klik. Soon the sounds were distinct and frantic, the mumbled noises distinguishing themselves into screams. Tron looked up at the sky, a sliver of grey that quickly darkened with a storm of ash and smoke.

He jabbed his servos onto the rock, climbing swiftly up the stones, his strength surging. The smell of fire and destruction hung thick in the air. The ground shook around him, the earth splitting at the edge of the ravine. Roaring he crawled and kicked his way out. He leapt out from the ravine, digging his claws deep into the earth for security. The scent of burning energon, sharp and bitter struck his olfactory sensors so strongly the taste stuck to his glossa.

The insane chaos of noise overwhelmed him; a torrential mess of screams, battle cries, clashing metal and exploding earth. He lifted his helm, his vision sharpened, the wiring of his systems tense. His spark blazed furiously at the chaos before him. The world was on fire and he was at the center of the slaughter.


	4. Tron

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Italics/boldindicate inner monologue

His sensors flared as hell erupted around him. He dragged himself out of the ravine, charging relentlessly into the fray even as hordes of bots fought to escape the flames. The scene of violence filled his senses, igniting his systems with brutal and maddening sensations. The scorching flames, blasting bullets and cannons, and the sight and sounds of terrified bots fighting and dying fueled a dangerous strength within him.

"Orion!" Tron dove deeper into the encampment turned battleground, protocols forgotten as he scanned the littered bodies of fallen bots.

No. It was impossible. Orion wasn't dead. Orion was gone, far, safe from this mess, safe in the docks he left him for.

A thunderous wave shook the sky. Bots fell and head their helms at the deafening sound. Tron turned his optics towards the roar. He moved quickly, with just enough time to see the distant docks crumble into billows of smoke and ash.

The core of his spark stopped. His entire world sank into darkness.

"Orion…"

Tron was not a mech burdened with thoughts of love. To him love was just another weakness, something unneeded, easily abused and replaced. He had little tolerance for such emotions, nor did he think himself capable of evening them. He was ruthless, harsh, and cruel. Love was nothing.

And yet now, as he watched the docks shatter into a million pieces he found his servos clenching against his spark. His optics snapped shut. The image of Orion's smile so deeply etched in his memories resurfaced. He never realized how fast he ran towards the destroyed docks, the pain of his body completely ignored. Nor did he hear his own horrible, stricken voice screaming for someone already lost.

"Orion! Orion!"

That single name possessed each furious beat of Tron's spark.

Around him other names were called as bots searched frantically for loved ones lost in the chaos. The shelters fell everywhere like tin toys collapsing under the hand of a cruel sparkling. In the confusion it was near impossible to tell the raiders from their victims. Ugly, dark, slivering creatures pounced on the shelters, ripping apart the material with greed. Across a burning platform a trio of raiders fought viciously over their loot. Energon cubes were flung, snatched, and broken as the invaders plundered every home. Their optics were sick, their frames rusted and bent with hunger.

A pair of them came out of the artisan tent, their large claws dragging a screaming mechling out of hiding. A larger bot suddenly appeared beside them, his armor heavy, smooth, and eerily pristine. One of such stature and poise did not belong here. The crest upon his shoulder and chest gleamed in the darkness, the unmistakable emblem of the city guard.

Tron watched intently. He hated the higher caste for their superior mentality. But right now he would welcome an entire legion of city guards to end this raid so he could reach Orion's remains, if there was anything left to be found…

His thoughts were broken when the city guard grabbed the terrified mechling, roughly inspecting the young one's shoulder and chest. The guard scowled beneath his visor.

"Unmarked. Outcast." Was all the guard said before dropping the mechling like scrap.

The guard walked away, oblivious to the mechling's pleas for help as the raiders brought out an empty cube. Tron was paralyzed as he saw them bend the youngling's helm over the cube, their claws swift and merciless. The cries were thick with agony, the pain pure and frantic. It only lasted for a few moments. The raiders dug their claws deep into the young one's neck, dragging their fingers along, energon bursting out from the wound and flowing into the cube. When they could extract no more the raiders tossed the dying mechling aside.

Tron stepped back, turning away only to see the same practice being doing done to a femme. The camp was teeming with raiders, working in packs to subdue their victims and rob them of the very energon keeping them alive.

All the while the city guards, the few of them that appeared, did nothing to stop it. They were too busy inspecting emblems, scanning and searching for something they had yet to find.

"Spare the marked ones!" One city guard commanded the raiders, "Kill the rest."

The outlaws were eager to comply. Some of them, not wanting to waste any resources, tore apart the bodies of their victims, taking whatever useful piece of metal and wire they could. A surge of newcomers appeared, other tenants who returned to fight instead of retreat. The raiders were caught unaware, and soon their own energon mingled with those of their victims.

Tron forced himself to get away. The fights he'd been in were ones for survival and dominance. What he witnessed was nothing else but evil. There was no sense to it, no victor to praise. They would all kill each other, the ground already slick and soaked from the massacre.

"Tron. Brother?"

Even in all the horror Tron could never deny that voice. He turned, his spark flaring as the voice shouted one more.

"Tron!"

A sheet of wind swept over a hill littered with dead bots. Upon that crooked hill, covered in dirt and energon, his armor bruised and bent, stood Orion. His body quickly drew back as a volley of firepower zapped overhead. His blue optics blazed in the night, finally finding and locking with Tron's gaze.

The silver mech raced towards him, clawing his way up the steep hill. Orion rushed down to meet him, the distance between them quickly closing.

A single powerful blast from a stray cannon knocked Orion down, blowing off half the hill and shooting the youngling into the hell pit below.

The impact shattered Orion's right arm, the sharp pain tearing so deep he felt as if he'd been ripped in half. Orion lifted himself up, pieces of his broken arm splintering with each move. He crawled to a fallen shelter, hiding against the collapsed walls as he tried to regain his senses. His optics flickered, the distorted images melding into a hideous memory.

Orion's body constricted, limbs rigid and useless as he caught sight of a mech close by. The slender mech was crawling pathetically on the ground, his once pristine face half torn by a bullet, the sensitive wires burnt away. The mech's body was broken from the waist down, his legs reduced to nothing more than slivers of metal dangling from his hips. He dragged himself by the joints of his arms. His broken servos clutched the dirt, vocals screaming with rage, optics fixed on a sparkling crying out to him. The sparkling was trapped in the arms of a raider. Her terrified pleas twisted Orion's spark.

"No! Mother. Mother! " The sparkling's tiny arms flailed madly as she tried to fight her way out from her captor's grasp. The raider simply crunched his talons into her shoulder. He tore out the fresh emblem from her shoulder, spraying the air with her life blood. Orion suddenly realized, with sick fascination, that this was the same sparkling who received her caste mark at the engraving ceremony. The raider crushed the torn symbol with his pedal, cursing as he pulled the shrieking child away.

The sparkling's carrier kept his optics on his screaming daughter, his fingers activating a gun he ripped from the clutches of a dead raider. Orion heard a distinct click. The carrier aimed towards the raider, his body shaking as systems failed. With a last cry the gun fired, launching a straight shot through the sparkling's spark chamber.

The raider roared, furious at the loss of a decent salve. He retaliated by returning the favor, gunning down the carrier so violently his companions had to subdue him.

"You wasted our ammo! And ruined their parts!" His vile companions smacked the weapon away from him. They picked went to the dead carrier, his body unrecognizable from the numerous wounds. They kicked the useless heap, "Can't even salvage a single thing now. Get the rest of the captives, quickly!"

Orion shrunk back into his hiding place, flinching at the sounds of metal, steel, and wires being torn apart. He shut his optics. The sparkling's face, so full of grief and desperation, would not leave his mind. Nor her carrier's careful aim. Orion knew it was no accident. That carrier killed his own creation. Whether out of pity or desperation, Orion couldn't understand. But the images were burned in his memory banks. That carrier died before the raider's bullets even pierced him. That carrier died the instant his sparkling's light disappeared.

"Lose one. Gain another." A raspy, slithering voice said, "You'll make a fair replacement."

Orion shook violently, his systems driving him into a state of panic. He leapt away as a pair of large, brutish servos descended on him. A city guard's visor gleamed with amusement.

"No mark I see. Even better." The guard brushed a finger over Orion's bare shoulder. The mech didn't seem fazed by the sheer atrocities surrounding them. He smiled, his carelessness sickening to see.

"You will come with me," The guard's touch was rough, threatening, yet he smiled just the same.

The youngling stared up at him, not daring to move under the immense mech's shadow.

"Do not resist your superiors, outcast." The guard gripped Orion's injured arm, twisting it, relishing the flare of pain from the young one's lips, "Or I will let those savages have you."

Orion answered by swinging his good arm, backing the force with his weight as he struck the city guard's sigil, smashing the symbol into the grey armor.

"I'll have your helm on a pike for that you filthy piece of slag!" The guard roared. He slammed his prisoner to the ground. He pinned down Orion's working arm, the thrill of conquest surging at the sensation.

"But first," The guard's former smile warped into a sinister, hungry grin. "I will turn you inside out. Consider this an honor, outcast."

The guard's servos traced Orion's face, the invading fingers traveling down to the youngling's chest plates. Orion had no time to flinch before the guard's servo was snapped back, the joints broken in one swift twist.

The guard was thrown back. A mass of silver was upon him, furious claws ripping through armor and spark.

"Stop this! Tron, don't! He's a city guard. They'll execute you!" Orion tried to pull Tron away. But no words could have eased him. Not after what nearly happened. Tron's servos appeared to be magnetized, drawing back only to strike the guard over and over, his rage relentless.

As strong as Tron was, the guard's superior armor and training kicked in. He blocked the silver mech's strike, twisting his arm before flinging him across the ground. Orion's screams were the last thing Tron heard before the guard stomped his head down, demolishing his audio receptors in a series of vicious kicks.

The world was silent as his body twitched beneath the massive pedals of the guard. His knee joints snapped. His neck felt wet, a blue streak trickling down from a torn line. He caught the guard's pedal as it tried to stomp again. He pushed it back, throwing his opponent off balance. Tron forced himself to stand, only to collapse as his knees gave way. He felt something cold and heavy against his helm. He struggled to pivot away just to see the barrel of a gun pointed right at his face.

The guard smiled. His weapon revved, ready to fire.

Instead of blasting away Tron's head, the guard collapsed, hitting the ground dead. Tron shook off the spray of energon and debris that erupted when the guard's neck was suddenly sliced in half. Standing above them, Orion trembled. The long, sharp metal shard he held was drenched in the guard's energon, wires from the neck cables still ripped and tangled at the end.

Tron wasted no time or chance. He crawled to the guard's helm and summoning his strength, crushed his skull like it was nothing more than a slab of rock. Tron received no feedback from his ruined audios, but he could tell from Orion's face that they were still in danger.

"Can you hear me?" Orion said, falling to his brother's side, servos inspecting the countless wounds, "Tron. Please say something!"

 _ **You stayed**_ , Tron wanted to say. Instead the words came out in a jumbled mess. Orion's servos were coated in energon as he brushed against Tron's neck, horrified at the extent of the injuries.

Tron gazed up at his friend, the anger in his optics fading into wonderment. Orion killed for him. And now instead of running away he was tending his wounds, even if the outcome would be death regardless of what was done. Orion was terribly shaken; Tron could feel it as those careful servos touched him. The younger mech tried to keep the energon from seeping out, but the frustration and panic was too clear in his face to hide the truth.

Tron fought to get up, wanting to show Orion that he could get through this. The pain must have caused him to cry out because Orion was pushing him gently down, lips mimicking the sound of a hush. The bright blue optics shone down on him and he found himself entirely immersed in all they conveyed. Orion held his hand, interlocking their fingers together. Tron marveled at how such a gentle touch could suddenly turn deadly for his sake. Tron's other servo reached out and touched Orion's injured arm. Orion shook his helm, coaxing his friend to remain still and rest.

A strong gust sent debris hurling upon them. Orion shielded Tron's helm as best as he could by using his own body as a barrier. When the dust cleared their hands were still locked together, their grip near numbing. Orion's head hid against Tron's chest. Tron's spark eased, his restlessness subsiding with Orion in his arms. He held tight, as if letting go would guarantee his own destruction. And maybe it did.

Tron held on to the youngling; his soul devastated with the knowledge that he would not survive if Orion died before him. He would have no reason to go on. Nothing else was worth losing him for, not even this sorry existence.

"Tron," Orion said. He stroked Tron's quivering face softly, "You need energon. You already lost so much…"

The older mech shook his helm. He knew what Orion was planning. It was too dangerous. He couldn't risk being parted from him again. He clenched unto Orion's hands, his red optics burning in silent protest.

But Orion was already scanning the area for the precious resource, no matter how small the quantity. At last his sensors detected a familiar shape some distance away. It was a single energon cube with only a tiny portion of energon left, barely enough to cover a fourth of the container. The blue liquid was luminous in the dark. Their need only intensified its brilliance.

_**No!** _

Tron's wrecked vocals strained and cracked. The silence was maddening. He held on to Orion, but his might was no longer enough. The younger mech freed himself, ready to dash for the cube when Tron lunged forward and grabbed his servo.

Orion stopped at the sudden pull, looking down at their joined hands. His gaze drifted to meet Tron's. The younger bot drew closer to him, the sensation between the wonderful and strange. He pressed his lips close to Tron's injured audio receptors and whispered.

Tron heard none of it. But the closeness of their broken bodies, the intimacy of their touch, and Orion's presence conveyed all he needed to know.

"I'll come back," Orion promised, "You will never lose me. Please…let me go. For both of us."

Tron felt like his spark was split in two as Orion slipped from his hold. Unyielding he reached out, grasping and clawing the empty air as if he could still bring Orion back.

Orion inched carefully towards the dear prize, his pedals stumbling on discarded parts. The beaten earth was slick and wet with wasted energon. The remains of the dead littered the land like scraps ready for the pit. As he came closer, Orion went faster, daring to make a dash for the cube. His pain was forgotten, replaced only by fear and the urgent need to get the energon. To go back to Tron.

Ugly, spiral objects flew out of the shadows surrounding Orion. At first there was only two, but then four, six, ten of them descending on him. In a klik the objects snagged into his armor, biting deep. At the end of each spiral a thick chain spotted with barbs was attached. The chains tightened and pulled, forcing Orion to fall or be torn apart.

He looked up. There were ten raiders crawling out of their hiding places, each other holding on to a chain. One of them tugged roughly, causing a spiral to move and drag deeply into Orion's injured arm. The cold cruelty in their laugh was sickening. Orion heaved, his intakes increasing, fans whirling madly. They crept slowly towards him, their long, hungry fingers shining with energon. A spiral dove into his leg, the pain crushing and crippling. Orion screamed.

Tron was crawling, energon spilling from him, his systems fighting to stay online. The fury within pushed him further, igniting his strength for another chance to join Orion. This was no battle. He would lose. Death was so close, the heat of it burning at his spark. But it didn't matter. He just needed to reach him. All his desires were for nothing else.

_**I won't lose you. If we die—** _

He collapsed, servos still straining to reach out even as they fell, useless.

_**We die** _

His sensors, every last portion of strength and awareness, all that was left of him…all of it was anchored on Orion.

_**Together** _

The world slowed. The raiders tied Orion down. The spirals and barbs ripped his armor. One of the invaders pounced in the air, ready to slice through Orion's neck.

Energon splattered, drenching the air as a shot burst the raider out of the air into countless pieces.

The others, one by one, erupted. Not a single shot even grazed Orion. As the raiders twitched and died, the sudden stillness gave way to a new figure. He emerged from the fumes of battle, his armor black, heavy, and scarred. His massive build towered over Orion, his face stern and harsh. Upon his shoulders and on his arms, there were cannons, each of them blazing deadly with intense heat.

Tron felt his systems shutting down. He fought it. Orion…

The stranger removed the youngling from the trap, gathering Orion in his arms like a sparkling. The mech cradled Orion securely against his chest, his canons aimed and ready for an attack. He walked forward, his footsteps taking them closer to Tron's dying form.

Tron watched, helpless and enraged as the mech passed him by. For an instant their optics met. Furious red and vibrant blue. Dark and bright. There was a large scar above the mech's right optic, the old wound did nothing to subtract from his threatening glare.

The mech walked on, shielding Orion. Tron twitched as his systems finally surrendered. The mech carried Orion away, the pair disappearing in the dark haze. He forced a final image into his memory banks, one he could not afford to forget. On the mech's shoulder was an emblem he only saw when elders would draw it, just to scare them with stories of wars and disasters past. It was an emblem from a caste once honored and revered, now long rejected and despised.

_**Thetacon** _

Tron's rattling frame slowly stilled. His optics remained open, cold, and lifeless. His servos however, did not lose their grip, ever defiant, ever seeking for someone beyond his grasp.


	5. Orion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm kinda lost with the geography of Cybertron, especially since different continuities seem to place cities at different locations. Because of this I will do my best to try and give locations according to the best of my knowledge, and at times for the story's sake. I also have an OC taking a minor part, simply because I couldn't cast anyone else for his specific role…uh…you'll what I'm talking about soon And coming up with transformers names that sound half-way decent is hard lol. I also take full blame for any mistakes that might pop up.
> 
> Information regarding the Thirteen Primes is a mix and match of movieverse and TFP. But TFP has more history, so there'll be a lot of influences from Transformers: Exiles. To be honest this is becoming less and less movieverse and more TFP driven.

The world was dark and still, the earth empty and cold without a sun. Suddenly the sky burst with light as thirteen figures emerged from the horizon, the glorious fire of life rising with their march. They flew upon clouds of golden fire, together spreading the sun's rays over the dying world. As the light spread, the dead planet flickered and crackled into motion, the luminous glow of energon flooding the land and nourishing the earth.

Orion could feel life awaken around and within him, from the massive skies and lands to the very center of his spark.

He watched as the thirteen traveled the lands, amazed as cities rose by their hands. They were all different from one another, yet all of them had a sense of terrible, immeasurable power. One could bend time and space with a single thought. The other could change into whatever form he desired. Some created impossible wonders from the ashes of nothing. Others crushed ancient mountains into storms of dust. New beings, new cities, and abundant life filled the world, the great sun shining endlessly above them.

There was one of the thirteen who drew his attention. She was tall, her frame dark and lined with gold, the flash of her optics offering a window into her brilliant mind. She fashioned countless masterpieces over a forge, fearsome weapons to build or destroy. Her own beauty was a work of art in itself. Some unnatural quality about her grace transfixed him, and for a moment she looked straight at him with wisdom and loneliness so deep it made him feel helpless and lost.

_How highly do I think of you? How many are the thoughts?  
_

_Scale the skies and count the stars,_

_Beyond their numbers?_

_More_

A taller figure appeared, singing the sweet ancient rhyme. A mech took her by the hand, leading her to a garden that glowed with crystals. He was strong, his massive armor thick from battles and victories, his hands roughened by countless years. Yet he appeared proud of being in such a beautiful place, waving his arms out to show her the grand design of the gardens. The weapon-smith laughed, her joy as bright as the haven he created for her.

But when the pair disappeared into the intertwining crystals, Orion saw a greater shadow watching their escape, a mech with eyes so red and hatred so deep it felt like all the warmth in his spark vanished.

In an instant the world burst in light, not from the warm glow of a kind sun but from the vicious fires of war. Orion found no hiding place as he watched the cities fall, the beauty of the world ripped out from the slaughter. The thirteen were there, yielding their weapons, the intent of death and vengeance clear upon their faces. The femme, for a moment, ceased the battle with her words. They must have admired her greatly, for her words to still their anger. She might have truly stopped them had the mech with red optics not attacked, tearing out her spark and crushing out the light before them.

At her death, Orion felt the sun itself melt away. The disbelief of the remaining warriors turned into anguished rage. The world crumbled as they clashed and hunted the treacherous murderer, chasing him into the immense darkness. Only one remained to hold his beloved, his devotion to her unwavering even in death

...Time spun and the years seemed to literally slip by. He saw Cybertron covered in shadows and frigid nights, the days of wonder and glory long forgotten. Lives flashed like glimpses of a dream, or words of a rhyme he couldn't truly remember. Memories, hopes, and loves lost and gained, the passing moments filled with the sensations of countless lives...

When all became calm and still again he was surrounded by warmth unknown to him before, and upon his helm he felt the gentle brush of a kiss soothing his cries. He tried to lift his head up to see but he found that he physically couldn't. Instead he curled further into the embrace of the one who held him. There were shadows on the walls, the door before them sealed shut yet he could hear the horrible noises on the other side. They were the sounds of screams cutting off into the silence of death, the sound of spears and swords and gunfire tearing through metal and spark. Yet for some reason, he felt no fear, not while this stranger cradled him.

"You will live," The mech spoke, his voice soft and full of sorrow, "You will live to greet a whole new sun. If only Primus would have granted me the joy to see your face on that day…"

There was a crash against the wall. Orion felt the mech hold on to him tighter as energon leaked through the space between the floor and the door. Orion felt the warmth disappearing, a strange, unwelcome chill befalling them both. He cried in distress. He reached out his servos, his fingers small and dark, the hands of a little sparkling…

The mech laughed, more out of grief than joy, kissing Orion's helm as the battle outside waged on.

_Cry softly love but have no fear._

_I'll tell you how, when, and why_

_My love for you forever shines throughout this endless night_

The mech rocked him gently as the melody began. The sound was sweet and soothing, yet it couldn't mask the sadness breaking him apart.

_How highly do I think of you?_

_How many are the thoughts?_

_Scale the skies and count the stars_

_Beyond their numbers, more_

_How deeply does the joy of you fill this weary spark?_

_Deep enough to give it life, my light, my love, my all_

The mech raised Orion up to see him face to face. The mech's face was young, and it might have been very beautiful were it not torn with stories of abuse. But regardless of the scars and bruises, Orion couldn't help but feel love towards this stranger.

_When shall my love finally end,_

_When my life has passed away?_

_Until the last star shines, and even as he dies,_

_My love is yours another day…_

The stranger traced Orion's face as he sang, his touch turning cold. Orion felt fear at the change. The mech sensed his distress and pulled him closer to his spark.

_So hush my love. Have no fear._

_Ask me how, when, and why_

_My love for you forever shines throughout this endless night…_

Orion wanted to know his name. He felt so familiar, yet a stranger just the same, perhaps someone he knew and long forgot. The spark against his armor, radiating warmth and love, calmed him like nothing else. He needed to know him…if not completely, then just his name…

The silence that followed chilled them both. The noise of battle faded until a few heavy footsteps remained. The sound of approaching warriors gathered at the door. Orion braced himself as the door slowly slid open, a gush of energon, wires, and gears flooding the safe room. Soon three mechs towered above them. Their dark armor glistened with energon, bits of metal slashed or blown off, their weapons over heated from constant use. And although they appeared ready to claim victory, clear defeat already claimed their faces.

"The last command still stands." The mech said.

"We cannot leave you."

"I'm dying! There's nowhere to take me now." The mech said, "But the last command still stands. Honor your vows and fulfill them. Take him. Keep him away from all this death. Let him escape from this accursed line…"

Orion felt himself being lifted up by the warrior. The separation from the mech made his spark shudder with terror, every fiber of him seeking to return to that place close to the mech's spark. It was then that he saw the horrible wounds on the mech's abdomen and legs.

"My son, light of my spark. Farewell…", the mech reached out and touched his face once more, kissing for the final time,"Farewell...my dear, sweet Optimus."

And with those last words Orion was carried out by the three guards. He saw nothing but darkness ahead. Yet even from a distance he could still hear…no…he could still feel the mech's anguished cries, he felt it resonating within his very spark. And then slowly, painfully, the cries were gone, the bond between them severed in emptiness.

Again time spun, slower this time. He awoke alone, shivering and covered with dirt. There were new faces above him now, some kind, others cruel. But there was one whose gaze never left him, a figure of rugged silver and red optics….

I know you…Orion wanted to say…I know you so well. Who are you?

There was no reply. Only memories. Memories of him and the silver mech growing up in discarded shelters, sharing energon, troubles, and dreams. There were flashes of them sneaking to the docks, venturing into the caverns and ravines of the wilderness, drawing upon the rocks only to destroy them later. There were memories of great darkness and dangerous encounters with other orphans. There was a night outside the shelters, the acid coming down on them both yet neither caring as long as they remained together.

The emotions poured through him, the trust, hope, and love he felt for this mech. All his next memories were filled with little else except this one creature. Yet he couldn't remember the name. He remembered how upset his friend was at the news of his soon departure to the docks. He recalled the guilt that gripped him to return. Then the slaughter that followed, the world swallowed in terrifying violence. The rush of dread, fury, and desperation returned to him, possessing his once innocent hands to take another's life. All for the sake of saving a mech whose name he couldn't even remember…

Then thick smoke billowed around him like a black shroud, the heaviness of the air choking his exposed body. He felt no pain, no pressure, as pieces of him cracked and fell. Strong arms carried him through the torrents of bullets and spurs. He found himself pressed securely against a solid, heavy chest, a strange crest of an ancient caste etched upon the metal. Above him, brilliant blue optics looked down from a face scarred and sculpted by lifetime of battles.

He tried to reach out, to move away, to do anything but remain helplessly limp. Yet his body did not heed any command.

A flash of light, quick and blinding shot the air above them.

Orion looked down, his sight staying long enough to see the silver mech on the ground, dying and reaching out for him. He wanted to reach out too, but no matter how much he willed it he simply couldn't move.

"Tron—" Orion croaked, the name barely leaving him. The recollection of the name awakened him. His body crackling with pain.

"Tron," He said, stronger now. The world was fading away. Tron was fading away.

"Tron! Tron!" Orion cried, "Tron!"

He felt cold. Restraints kept his arms and legs in place. Something was wrong…

* * *

"He's coming back online!"

Voices he never heard before were speaking all around him.

"Get out of my way, both of you! Arcee, take these two out of here before I waste another wrench on them."

"Ratch—"

"Do as he says Arcee,"

"But I—yes sir. Sunny, Sides, over here!"

"But Cee—"

"Now!"

Orion groaned as his optics opened, only to wince back at the immense brightness above him.

"Easy now. Slowly." A gruff voice instructed, "Your optics need time to adjust. I had to upgrade them after we brought you in."

"Tron…"

"Is that your name youngling?" Another voice asked, this one deeper and kinder than the last.

"No…"

"Then what is your designation?"

"Or—Orion," He answered softly, his voice still croaking. His optics flickered, sending images to his processor. Slowly, he began to piece together his strange new surroundings. There was a mech above the berth where he laid, servos busy attaching monitors and preparing all sort of instruments. He was short as far as mechs go, with white and red colors and the medic emblem proudly displayed on his shoulder.

"Orion of what caste?" The medic said. His voice conveyed little patience.

Orion's fingers gripped the berth tightly. He remembered how back in the shelters, there were rumors of how outcasts were collected and used for medical studies and experiments. In his fear he began to twist against his restraints, the motions scratching the paint from his armor.

"Ratchet," The other mech warned, "You're a medic, not one of Shockwave's interrogators. Now remove the restraints."

"Armlock, he is an outcast of unknown origin."

"He is also a child who's greatly afraid and confused. Now remove the restraints."

The medic grumbled as he obeyed the order. Orion immediately sat up as soon as he was free, scanning the room for any chance of escape.

"Don't even try," The medic said, "Your systems are still trying to boot up. You've been in stasis for quite a while now. I also performed a long-over due upgrade on your major systems. It was a very delicate and…interesting operation."

When Orion finally took in the scope of where he was, he never felt so small and misplaced. The med bay room they kept him in was immense, one side of the room covered with more medical supplies than the shelters ever had. The floors were pristine, save for the skid marks he assumed were made when the three younger voices were ordered out. The monitors displayed data and though he couldn't read any of it Orion knew those were his injuries laid out for everyone in the room to see.

"Where…" Orion forced his vocalizer to get the words out. The sound of his voice was different, a bit more mature and smooth, "Where am I?"

"You are in my private med bay." The one named Armlock answered, "In the city of Metrotitan."

Metrotitan. Orion heard of that city whenever he and Tron would visit the docks. Aside from that, there was little else he knew of it, other than it was the closest city-state from their home.

"And this is Ratchet. Our medic."

"Chief medic of the house of Lord Armlock , City Lord of Metrotitan and advisor to the Iaconian High Council." Ratchet continued.

"Thank you for the introduction Ratchet," Armlock said, slightly annoyed, "But it seems hardly fitting to overwhelm our guest with such titles."

"No need to hide it from him my Lord," Ratchet said, "And it's best that he knows who he's addressing so he may act appropriately to authority."

As if on cue, two bolts zipped by, fire practically blazing off their wheels. One of them, sporting colors of yellow and grey had the nerve to run over the medic's foot.

"Sunstreaker! Sideswipe!" The medic's face looked ready to melt, "I told you to stay away from the med bay. I'll reformat the both of you into junk-scrappers when I get my servos on you! Where's Arcee?"

The other one, silver and black, laughed as he raced his brother, chasing each other over a rust stick they found. They were barely older than sparklings, and still acted like ones, chirping and clicking to each other as if no one else needed to be talked to.

"Will the two of you speak normally? Or would you like me to disable your vocalizers for good? Why aren't you answering my questions?"

"Because I ordered them to shut up," A little, feminine voice spoke up, "And now they won't say anything."

The femme was small, very young, and covered from helm to pedal with white and pink armor. Her armor was skillfully crafted, the beautiful artistry uncommon for lower class bots. She didn't seem too pleased though, her blue optics as indignant as Ratchet's own glare. She cast a glance at Orion and in that moment the mechling learned that her anger was not one you wished to tamper with.

"Sunstreaker. Sideswipe. Halt," Lord Armlock said, his voice firm yet calm. The two bots slowed down, wisely choosing to stop a safe distance away from Ratchet.

Lord Armlock stood to his full height, the shadow of his immense figure looming down upon to two very humbled twins. His frame was white, deep grey and dark red. Bits of silver composing his emblem were engraved on his massive chest. He bore no visible weapons, but it seemed like a single punch or stomp of his pedals would be enough to decommission any mech. The twins couldn't look at him directly, suddenly finding the skid marks on the floor of extreme importance.

"When Ratchet wishes, the two of you will return here to clean the mess you made. In the meantime you will go to the training grounds with Arcee. She will determine an appropriate punishment for your behavior."

Arcee smiled eagerly. Armlock didn't miss the mischief dancing in her optics.

"Appropriate punishment." He repeated. Arcee's smile faded a bit, but she still had the glow of victory about her.

"Sorry," The twins said, helms bowed down. Sides however, managed to shoot a daring look. at Arcee The femme simply waved them away, her head already fantasizing revenge.

"Now get out of here," Ratchet said slowly, his hand subconsciously, instinctively reaching for a wrench, "Or I'll make good on my threat and reformat you both into junk-scrappers."

The twins left hesitantly. Sunny actually smiled at Orion as he passed by. Sides patted Ratchet's foot as if to apologize. Apparently the medic thought he was being mocked because he lightly kicked the bot away. Arcee glanced back, leaving only when Armlock gave her an encouraging smile in return.

"I swear to Primus," Ratchet said once the children were gone, "Those two brothers were programmed by Unicron himself to destroy me."

"They are barely any older than sparklings," Armlock said, "Soon they'll be keeping Arcee and her sisters in line."

"With all due respect my Lord, I doubt that. If Elita and Chromia were around those twins wouldn't dare disrespect Arcee's wishes. The audacity of them both! And now we have another spark to settle—"

"Bedside manners," Armlock said, nodding to Orion who clearly heard everything.

Ratchet didn't apologize however, his mood thoroughly ruined it seemed.

"As I said before," Ratchet brought over a full length mirror in front of Orion, "I had to perform a major upgrade. Your injuries were severe. Try as I might to salvage what I could, most of your parts were beyond repair. You were fortunate to have survived at all, and even more lucky to end up in this med bay."

The medic's words were lost to Orion. The moment the mirror was before him, he couldn't pull his attention away from the reflection staring back at him. The mech he saw was a bit taller, more built and far cleaner than the Orion he remembered. For once, his protoform seemed to fit in the armor he was given. And what wonderful armor it was...well,at least to someone who never knew luxury. Shining, polished red metal composed his arms, the designs sleek yet sturdy. Blue metal covered his chest and torso, the old wounds sealed and healing. His legs were silver and blue, with red encasing the lower legs and pedals. He stared at himself, grateful for the medic's skill yet fearful of what it might cost him.

"Is it not to your liking?" The medic asked, feeling a bit offended by his patient's apparent lack of appreciation.

"No, it's beautiful," Orion said quickly, not wishing to seem ungrateful to the mech who saved his life. He was just hesitant to give thanks because it felt like it wasn't even him anymore. Where it not for the colors, he doubted if Tron would even recognize him again…

"Tron."

"Who?"

"Tron," Orion whispered, "My brother. Where is my brother?"

"You are the only patient here," Ratchet said, "No one else."

The realization of the medic's words made no immediate impact on Orion. The young mech was silent, as if he never heard Ratchet's reply. His shoulders bent as if a heavy weight were cast upon them. After a few minutes of stillness, the mechling's frame began to tremble.

"I have to find him."

"You haven't fully recovered," Ratchet said, "As for your brother, where will you start? How did you even get here?"

Orion looked up.

"You don't know how I got here?" The young mech's gaze drifted from Ratchet to Armlock , trying to remember. He was carried away, but by whom? Ratchet was too small and his armor too bright and flawless. Armlock may have been massive and formidable in battle but the crest he wore was completely different from the one Orion saw.

"We hoped you could tell us when you awoke how you came upon this med bay. Your arrival caught us all off guard."

"Off guard for you. I, on the other hand, was terrified." Ratchet said. He turned to Orion, "Forgive me for sounding a bit unwelcoming. But you can imagine my panic when I was pulled from recharge late one night to discover the medbay locks had been tampered with, and then later discovering you unconscious on the private med berth. The codes to this room are known only to me in the event that someone of a noble line would need my medical attention. So please tell me, Orion, how you managed to get into the most secure room in the med bay with no trace of where you came from or who you are."

"You made your point clear Ratchet," Lord Armlock stepped in, disappointed with how the medic spoke to the obviously distressed youngling.

"I…I'm sorry. I can't remember how I got here," Orion said, his voice barely audible. Both medic and Lord watched as the mechling shook, "I'm sorry…I'm sorry. I'll leave if you want but please… I just want my brother back. I left him. I said I'd come back but we were separated…I have to find him."

"How were you separated?" Armlock asked, searching the mechling's answers for clues. He didn't have to wait long.

"There was a horrible raid. Scavengers attacked. And the guards…the city guards!" Orion could still feel how one of them touched him, the memory of it chilling him, "They slaughtered so many. One tried to kill me. My brother stopped him. Please, he was hurt worse than I. I must go to him. I can't leave him there!"

Ratchet's scowl faded as Orion begged, quickly realizing along with Armlock where the poor child may have come from.

"City guards attacked your home?" Armlock asked, "You were there during the Burthov massacre?"

"What?" At that moment, Orion couldn't grasp the enormity of the word, "What massacre?"

"It has been two stellar-cycles since the incident." Armlock said, "Some soldiers from my City Guard were accused of various crimes against my subjects, crimes I couldn't ignore. After finding them guilty of corruption and abuse I sentenced them to the only penalty preferable to death. I had their titles and statuses revoked, deeming them cast out from their caste. They couldn't retaliate against me without getting a death sentence."

"You only did what was right Armlock ," Ratchet said, "Anything that followed was not your fault."

"Thank you old friend but I don't wish to hide the truth from our guest. Especially since he's survived the most devastating raid in recent records."

The City Lord, despite his formidable appearance, had genuine sadness in his optics.

"Investigations are inconclusive. But I believe that the dishonored city guards aligned themselves with the scavengers and attacked the shelters were you lived. All of Cybertron knows of it. And those guards got the revenge they sought. I've been trying to fix the mess ever since, though many question my leadership."

"Some more than others," Ratchet said, "And many of the guards are still unaccounted for. They probably changed names and joined the miners or gladiators instead of facing their crimes, cowards that they are."

"I need to find Tron," Orion insisted, "He was dying…"

"Young one, the massacre happened stellar-cycles ago." Lord Armlock said, "I've sent rescue and retrieval groups but there were no survivors. If they were, they are all probably with the raiders or rebels now. There's nothing left. That massacre completely demolished Burthov and as of now the wilderness is void of any life. I am sorry."

Orion didn't speak. He imagined the wilderness, barren and empty of the camps and bots he grew up with. The shelters were ugly and dangerous, but they were the only home he knew. And now all of it was gone away, torn off the face of Cybertron by a group of revengeful, corrupt, guards. His new frame hitched and trembled, the images of fire, smoke, and death returning to him. He recalled how a carrier killed his own femme rather than see her be taken captive. The memory still haunted him.

"Have you tried to contact him through your family bond?" Ratchet asked, a bit more gentle this time, "If you can still sense him he may still be alive."

"I…I have no bond with…anything. Tron and I are both orphans, we found each other, we grew up together." Orion said, "But he's still my brother nonetheless, family bond or not."

Orion's blue optics were heavy with sorrow yet he refused to express his grief in front of them. He struggled to keep his helm up even though he just wanted to fall and hide away. No home. No Tron. A host of questions descend on his mind, but the shock of all he learned restrained him from asking them aloud.

The City Lord touched his shoulder. He flinched, years of hearing the cruelty of the upper caste bending his judgment of the kind gesture. He heard of City Lords who would take slaves from the outcasts to use for their own perverse means, both physically and emotionally. He may have owed them his life but he couldn't give them what they might demand. His longing for Tron grew deeper at that thought, knowing full well that his brother would rather kill or be killed before allowing anyone to subject him to that fate.

"We do not intend to harm you," Lord Armlock said as kindly as he could, "Nor will I allow anyone to treat you less than a guest. But for your safety Orion, I cannot permit you to leave the premises of this medbay. When we find a place for you to go, we will let you leave."

"All I want is to be with my brother," Orion said, "Please sir do not think I'm ungrateful. I owe you greatly for your kindness but…I…"

"You will be safe here. Do not let rumors of my caste dictate who I am." Lord Armlock said, "I wish to help you. I will ask for nothing you are unwilling to give. Ratchet,"

"Yes?"

"Ensure that Orion has all that he needs during his stay. He will remain here until we find a way to place him into the system."

"I have to discuss that with you. I think I may have a solution to all this but first we must contact Alpha Trion."

"Wait," Orion spoke up, instantly regretting speaking out of turn. The City Lord nodded, encouraging him to continue, "You…you're planning on placing me in the system? Into a legitimate caste?"

"Yes," The large mech answered, "If you are willing to take this opportunity. I shall see it done."

Placing outcasts into the system wasn't just illegal, it was also extremely difficult to do, and extremely dangerous for anyone involved. He might have gotten away with being a dock worker as his old caretaker intended. It was a lowly caste, one where his presence wouldn't be noticed, one where he could integrate himself without fear of consequence. Anything higher however and it would end with termination. The upper castes were obsessed with keeping the purity of their bloodlines, refusing outcasts to be accepted into their ranks for shame of possibly tainting their highborn lineage through half-breed sparklings. There was one poor outcast, Orion recalled, that bore a sparkling with a high-level politician. Instead of being accepted into their ranks, both the carrier and the bastard child were sent to die in Burthov. And so they did. It was a story repeated many times over. Still others schemed, bribed, and fought their way into the system, but no matter what they did they were always discovered and executed for their actions by the Guild. How then, can he ever hope to succeed? And more troubling, why was this City Lord willing to help him?

"It will difficult but not impossible," Armlock said, as if he knew Orion's doubts, "I've seen many who have tried and failed, but they don't have what we do… a friend of great influence in the Hall of Records. You have every reason to be cautious but I ask that you at least consider this offer."

The City Lord smiled. Orion tried to read him, seeking for any reason to distrust him. Orion didn't speak or even nod in acknowledgement. He simply bowed his helm, believing it better to be silent than give a thoughtless answer.

"I will allow you time to rest," Armlock said. He turned to Ratchet, "In the meantime, my medic and I must speak. The med bay is yours to explore. I only ask that you not venture outside. The rest of my household has not been alerted of your presence but they will be notified when a choice has been made regarding your future condition and state."

Orion looked up, his face still sunken and troubled. His fingers curled around the edge of the berth, as if gripping tightly would somehow steady him.

"You are a City Lord," Orion finally spoke, his voice heavy and faltering, "And I am a lowly outcast indebted to you. I will do as you wish. I have no right to refuse."

There was a sudden change on the City Lord, his face softened, his optics grew wide and bright with memory.

"You remind me of someone," Armlock said, "He was very dear to me. I hope that like him, you too will come to trust that I mean no harm to anyone, especially one such as you."

And with those parting words the City Lord gave Orion another touch on the shoulder, a gentle smile upon his noble face. Orion watched as Armlock and Ratchet both exited the room, not missing how they activated the locks so he couldn't escape.

Alone at last, Orion freely trembled at the future before him. If he tried to become part of the system, he would be risking his life. If he refused, where would he go? There was no more Burthov. Where will he run too then? How would he survive with no skills or strength? He heard once that you needed to be ruthless, ready to manipulate and scheme in order to live in the shadows of the cities. But he had none of those traits nor was he willing to learn them. A hundred possibilities ran through his mind, and each outcome showed him a bleak future, one where he was alone and without Tron.

If there was a way he could return to Burthov, he would. Primus knows he would have traded his new form and this chance for a new life just to have Tron beside him again. He felt like a traitor, abandoning his dearest friend to die in that miserable pit.

Orion's reflection stared back at him, the image beautiful yet incomplete. And the place beside him felt as empty as the core of his spark.

* * *

"You should know better than to speak to a child that way," Armlock said, "You of all mechs should know better than to belittle an outcast. Especially in my presence."

Ratchet sighed, yet he felt no need to apologize. He was currently in the City Lord's office, preparing files to be sent directly to Alpha Trion.

"You're letting your love for Firstlight cloud your judgment. This…Orion…he is a stranger who appeared under strange circumstances. And I know that something isn't normal about that mechling. He can't possibly be a common outcast."

"Have your tests yielded any outstanding results?"

"My inspection of him did," Ratchet explained. He opened the file containing his notes and assessments, displaying the data on a blue screen, "I didn't want to reveal it so soon. I didn't want to make conclusions that may prove to be false but I can't ignore it any longer."

Ratchet paused, a bit unsure of finally sharing his findings.

"Each Cybertronian has a certain build determined by their frame type, which in turn is determined by their class. Seekers, grounders, two-wheelers, and combiners have distinct builds. This mechling however…he does not fit into any of those classes."

"Is he a stationary bot then?" Armlock asked.

"His t-cog was locked when I inspected it. No surprise there,"

Outcasts were forbidden to ever use them. The laws stated that only those within the castes could have the privilege of obtaining an alt form. It was a cruel, selfish law, and many districts resorted to locking the t-cogs of their outcasts in order to fulfill it. Some cruel enforcers went so far as to simply rip the organ off, rendering a mech stationary, and in many ways, permanently mutilated.

"Fortunately I was able to unlock it. He should be able to scan when he recovers,"

"Then we will waste no time in helping him select an alt form,"

"But that's not what concerns me the most. As I said, his basic form does not match that of a seeker, combiner, or even that of a normal grounder. I would say his condition is unique if not for the fact that I've seen this kind of build just once before."

"Where?"

"Back in Iacon, when I was called in by Alpha Trion himself. He was suffering from some sort of mysterious ailment many years ago. I inspected him and found nothing amiss. I did note however, that his body composition was extremely different from any other I've ever seen. I thought it was because of his old model, but now after seeing the same patterns in Orion I'm not so certain. Chances are this youngling may be descended from the same scribes as Alpha Trion without any knowledge of it."

"And if we can prove his legitimacy can we lawfully send him to Alpha Trion?"

"It would be difficult, as you said, to bring an outcast into the system. But if the great archivist is willing to help us as he's done before, Orion stands a mighty chance of beginning a brand new life."

"Then send Alpha Trion anything that will favor Orion. I pray to Primus he responds well to our requests."

"And if he doesn't?" Ratchet asked, "Where will the mechling go then?"

The City-Lord thought carefully. He glanced at the holograms by his desk, the figure of his lovely Firstlight immortalized by frames of data. He stared at the picture, nodding and smiling as if his mate could still speak to him.

"Whatever may happen I can assure you one thing," Armlock said, "For the sake of honoring Firstlight's memory I shall not turn that outcast away."

Ratchet knew better than to question Armlock . For once honoring Firstlight's memory was involved, there was nothing short of death that could change the City-Lord's mind.

* * *

Orion had always been quiet company, never being boisterous or wild. But it seemed like the long days hiding in the med bay had all but turned him mute. Oddly enough, it was Sunstreaker who first decided to befriend the odd bot, even if his idea of befriending involved wrecking half the med bay and turning Ratchet into a near-homicidal bot.

Orion was very hesitant at first, feeling a bit awkward with how hyper and wild Sunny and Sides could be, especially when he found out that the twins were meant to become warriors one day. Specifically they were to be trained as personal guards for Armlock's family, though Orion wondered who could even dare threaten someone as strong as the City Lord. Sunny didn't seem to care much that Orion bore no caste mark, or maybe the child was too young to understand the differences between being in the system and being out of it. Either way, the speed-crazed yellow bot would follow Orion around, tossing about a small metal ball for him to catch.

This lead to Ratchet welding a very prominent sign on the med bay that stated "NO LOBBING." Yet somehow the twins managed to sneak into Orion's room with more lobbing balls, every day trying to demonstrate how the infamous game was played. For restless little racers the twins were surprising patient, passing the ball to Orion and retrieving it when he allowed it to roll on by. The day Orion finally caught the ball and tossed it back to Sides was the first time in a very long time that he smiled again. That same night the twins snuck in again to partake in energon with him. They consumed their shares in awkward yet friendly silence. It was a daily pattern that Orion found strangely comforting.

Orion barely saw the third youngling. The pink and white femme would only show up to scold the twins and drag them by their pedals back to the training grounds. He noticed that she had no caste mark on her armor. He wanted to ask her if she was in the same situation as he was, left in the City-Lord's house to await an uncertain fate. Yet she walked and talked like she belonged. She didn't speak to Orion directly either. And unlike the twins who would share their entire life stories with anyone even if unasked, Arcee didn't share a single bit of her history. And although she wasn't outright intolerant of Orion, she would often have a look of annoyance whenever he tried to find out more of Lord Armlock.

"Cee Cee is jelly," Sunny teased one day as they tossed the lobbing ball over a med berth.

"I'm not jealous," The femme said, "And I have a name. Arcee. Maybe you would remember it if that lobbing ball didn't hit your processor so many times. And both of you shouldn't be here, you're supposed to be training with the arms-master."

"But this is a warrior's game," Sides protested. The silver mechling caught the lobbing ball and posed like a victor, "For a mighty warrior."

Arcee rolled her optics.

"My sister is a more of a warrior than you and she's not even trained to be one."

"We'd rather have your sisters here than you," Sides tossed the ball to Arcee, "Chromia knows how to race and have fun. And Elita is at least nice to look at."

"Really? I'm sure Chromia will have a lot of fun racing after the two of you when I tell her how you keep running from your responsibilities. And you'll see how nice Elita looks after I tell her how you're always getting us into trouble!" Arcee launched the ball straight at Sunny who took the full hit on his midsection, sending him bounding on the floor.

"See! You're good at this!" Sides applauded, "And really Arcee, haven't you thought about forgetting about all those lessons for a little while?"

The pink femme crossed her arms. She may have been small and young, but the scowl on her face reminded Orion of Ratchet, as if the medic was channeling her to express his disappointment yet again. Although the medic wasn't vocally sweet or affectionate, it was clear to Orion that he clearly favored Arcee over the twins. In truth, there were many occasions when she'd run to Ratchet to enlist him as an ally against the two mischievous brothers. And the medic was always happy to comply.

"Would it really hurt to play just one game?"

"Depends Sides," Arcee said, "If I play one game will you finally go to the arms-master?"

"Deal!" Sides said, "Your call."

"It's always supposed to be my call,"

Orion wondered what she meant by that. Before he could ask, Arcee hugged the lobbing ball close to her chest, her smile mischievous.

"I shall hide this and your goal is to search and retrieve it."

"Wait a second. This sounds like a training exercise…disguised as a game." Sunny said, offended that she even tried to deceive them.

"Alright then," Arcee said, "Since you both like racing so much…catch me and take the lobbing ball. If you catch me before I reach the training grounds you can keep playing your stupid little games til your tires burn out."

"Deal." The twins said in unison.

"Starting now!"

"Hey!"

"No fair!"

The femme erupted in laughter as she zipped past the startled brothers. The twins dashed after her. Sunny lunged toward and grabbed her foot in mid-transformation. She kicked him back and dodged Sides, who was so angry at her head start his faceplates were fuming. Sunny didn't help by rushing so fast he smacked right onto his brother, sending them both crashing into a medical cart Ratchet spent all of yesterday meticulously organizing.

"Sunny! Sides!" Arcee turned direction so fast Orion was surprised her pedals didn't snap off. She discarded the lobbing ball, the toy rolling off into the depths of the med bay. Orion rushed to the fallen brothers' aide as well. The two were buried under piles of blank data pads, monitor wires, restraints, and various instruments.

"Sunny. Sides…Are you both okay?" Arcee asked, throwing off a surgical bowl from Sunny's dazed head.

"Game still on?" Somewhere underneath the rubble, Sides groaned, his servo sticking out of the mess.

"Forget the game," Arcee said, genuinely scared for them. She pulled Sunny out first. "Ratchet's helm is going to explode right off his shoulders when he sees—"

"Seize her!" Sides screamed, bursting from the pile like a maniac out of the pit. Instantly Sunny pounced on Arcee, apologizing all the while he was hugging onto her legs, keeping her from running after Sides as he rushed to find the lobbing ball.

"You two have no sense of honor," Arcee kicked Sunny square in the chest, knocking him down long enough to stand again, "Warrior class my…umph!"

Sunny jumped and caught her leg again even as she dragged him along the floor.

"Orion!"

It was the first time the femme said his name, and it genuinely caught him off guard.

"A little help?" Arcee asked, trying to shake off Sunny.

Orion watched the odd scene, unsure of what to do. The interactions he had with other younglings back in Burthov weren't this…playful. Younglings were either a safe distance away (due to the protective natures of their creators), or either uncomfortably close and ready to cause trouble. He never could make any friends with Tron constantly hovering about, and to be honest he had no interest in befriending his brother's rivals and enemies. It was completely new then, to watch three incredibly young bots simply having…fun. No survival involved, no true harm. Just friendship for the sake of friendship, even if they did rattle each other's nerves.

He decided not to participate. In spite Arcee's invitation, joining them still seemed like an intrusion. Instead he just laughed softly, allowing the three to continue chasing, pushing, and tackling each other. He simply stood there as they played, a part of him wondering how well they might have gotten along with Tron if given a chance. Sunny and Sides would probably not last a second. Arcee however, had a mysterious nature about her that he found similar to Tron's own tendency to keep to himself. Then again these three young bots didn't grow up in a deprived wilderness nor did they have to constantly wonder where their next ration of energon would come from. They never watched their closest friend be beaten and nearly killed, nor did they ever feel the rush, guilt, pain, and relief of taking away a mech's life to save another's.

His thoughts were shot out of mind with the blaring cries of alarms going off.

Arcee's playful mood vanished. She sprang from her place on the ground, pushing Sides away as she scrambled towards a standing monitor. She was still too small to reach the control panel, her tiny servos waving about to hit the right commands. Orion lifted her up carefully. She went to work without thanks, punching in the code that would cease the blaring sounds. Even when the alarms were silenced they could hear the incoming march towards the bay, the noise escalating.

Soon there was the heavy banging of servos against the locked doors. The sound was so loud Orion feared the doors would just crack open.

"Open this door! By order of the Guild."

Orion had never seen Arcee afraid before, but at that moment she was shaking. It was also to their horror that Sunny and Sides had completely disappeared. The femme motioned Orion to remain still and quiet as she got access to the security networking running displayed across the monitors. She went through the various fields until they came upon a camera that showed what was taking place directly outside the door. How a simple femme could gain access to the security, Orion would need to ask later. Right now his attention was fixed on the crowd of guards assembled at the door.

They transformed from their soldierly alt-modes with deadly precision. Orion's spark went wild with fight. It was like the mech he killed returned ten-fold. The guards, fully transformed, stood in formation with their weapons at ready range. Arcee gasped, her blue optics wide as another vehicle rode into view. This one was a tank unlike any Orion encountered before, it was heavily armored, impeccably spotless, and sported a deep, rich purple hue.

"You have to hide," Arcee said, struggling to get down. She grabbed Orion's servo, trying to pull him away from the doors, "Before he finds you…"

Orion glanced at the screen in time to see the tank shifting. As the plates of metals slid, swiveled, and locked, an imposing dark mech emerged. His arms were thick, shoulders high and stern, chest broad and strong. The figure stood tall and proud, his dark purple armor lined with dark grey metal. There was something regal in the way he stood, something very proud, self-assured, and intelligent. The most glaring feature however, was that his face wasn't even a face at all. Instead it appeared to be one gigantic optic. And even through the security feed, Orion could feel the intensity of the mech's stare, as if he could see every wire in his frame.

There were others appearing behind the cyclops now, cars and trucks all transforming into a restless crowd.

"On behalf of these concerned citizens of Cybertron," The one-optic mech declared, "I demand an audience with the Chief Medic of Lord Armlock ."

"Orion," Arcee whispered sharply, "You need to get out of here."

"And go where?" Orion asked. The femme had no answer. She just held on to his servo, her grip far too strong for someone her age.

A familiar voice grumbled from outside.

"What is the meaning of this?"

"Oh no. Ratch—" Arcee's face fell as she watched the medic from the monitors. Ratchet looked absolutely furious. He stood in front of the medbay's entrance doors, arms folded in defiance.

"Is there no decency left in you or has that optic taken up valuable processing space, Shockwave?"

"I have no time to bicker. Open the med bay."

"Which one of you is injured? No one is allowed inside unless they require medical treatment."

"We want to see the outcast," Someone from the crowd shouted, "Be rid of that scrap eater!"

The bots all nodded and spoke in agreement.

"Show us the outcast."

"How dare you allow that filth within our city. Have you no respect for your own vocation?"

"The Guild will not be denied! Bring out the outcast."

Arcee couldn't stand another word. She rushed out of the room before Orion could stop her. Alone and at a lost for what to do, he kept watching the scene displayed on the monitor screens.

"Enough! I want all of you out of the premises." Ratchet nearly stomped his pedals, his tanks ready to boil over, "As for you, Shockwave, have you gone insane? Barging into a City-Lord's home, accusing him of such things—"

"Is this not why good, noble Lord Armlock so eagerly wants my services to be transferred to Kaon? So that no one will investigate his actions?"

"Who he decides to help is none of your concern," Ratchet said, "Armlock has broken no law. And I will not allow you to harass my patient and personal guest of our City-Lord. You may be an agent of the Guild but you've forgotten the protocols for entering a City-Lord's own home."

"And have you forgotten that I still outrank you?" Shockwave stepped forward. In front of Ratchet, the mech appeared so tall his shadow completely covered the medic, "Tell me where the mechling your hiding came from."

"I will do no such thing. I will not give away classified patient information."

"I have witnesses who saw a mechling being taken in here. One with no caste emblem. You have a very dangerous guest, a threat to the safety of our citizens."

"I bear no caste emblem…does that make me a dangerous threat?"

Orion almost cried when he heard the little voice and saw the tiny femme appear on the screen. Arcee walked gracefully, her former childishness forgotten. With elegant strides she stood by Ratchet, looking up at Shockwave without a single quiver in her calm face. For some reason her presence silenced the crowd as if they'd been struck mute, their once proud helms bowed down as she walked by.

"I shall ask again," Arcee said, louder this time, "Does bearing a caste mark make me any more or less than my rank? If it makes no difference than I command you all to leave."

The bots were mumbling beneath their bowed helms. Some were even beginning to transform back into vehicle modes.

"Be grateful little sparkling," Shockwave said, leering over her, "That your rank still holds my respect. Or else I would have punished you for treading into grounds the likes of you should never venture to."

"You have gone too far." Ratchet said, fighting the urge to pull Arcee away.

"I haven't gone far enough. It is my duty to protect these subjects and you have been uncooperative," Shockwave said, "I've received reports that a Thetacon was seen going to and from this very med bay."

A string of angry protests and accusations murmured out of the crowd.

"You must be well aware of the penalty given to those who associate with rebels," Shockwave continued, "Or have you erased those days on the field from your memory banks? I would not blame you for doing so. Such experiences can drive a mech mad."

"I do not have to answer to you or to anyone else," Ratchet said, "I take orders from Armlock and his line."

"The Theatacon left a patient here." Shockwave said. He was so close to Arcee that another step could crush her, "Who is he? Another rebel perhaps? A spy to seek out Metrotitan's weaknesses?"

"For one who professes to value logic, you have an impeccable penchant for wild imaginings. Tell me Shockwave, since when did the Guild classify gossip as scientific reasoning?"

Relief washed through Orion's spark as the City Lord appeared, his own set of armed guards faithfully by his side and following behind. Arcee's face lit up at the sight of him and she stood a little taller when he quickly smiled at her. The crowd of unruly civil bots and even the city guards who accompanied Shockwave all bowed deeply as Armlock walked by.

"If you have concerns address them to me," The City Lord pulled Arcee to a safe distance away from the towering mech, "Do not involve my medic or anyone else from my household in your grievances towards my rulership."

"You're hiding a patient." Shockwave said, voice flat, "Why keep his presence a secret unless there is something you wish to conceal?"

"To honor the request of the one who sent him to us," Armlock replied calmly, "Alpha Trion did not want his most faithful apprentice to be disturbed during his recovery."

The mention of the master archivist sent a fresh wave of interest through the crowd. Orion's fingers twisted, his anxiety verging on blind fear. What was the City-Lord doing?

"Alpha Trion sent one of his apprentices to personally deliver a collection of works for our City-State's library. By a cruel turn of fate the ship he travelled on settled on the Burthov docks the night of the massacre. You've seen the reports. The docks were obliterated. The poor mechling was fortunate to survive. His injures were so severe Ratchet had to place him in the private rooms. The youngling hasn't been out since. As you can imagine, we feel a deep obligation to attend to him as he recovers. Alpha Trion himself demanded that we give him the best treatment available. He also asked us to report to him daily. Shall we include your little welcome party for his student on the records?"

"The reports of a Thetacon—"

"Nothing but idle gossip." Armlock 's patience was nearing its end. Shockwave stood back, his one optic staring dead ahead, as if he were trying to scan for the slightest hint of deception.

"If you say it is so then we shall accept it," Shockwave said, "Do you wish to issue a statement to stop those rumors at once?"

"No. Alpha Trion requested his student be given as much privacy as possible," With a gesture of his servos, his own guards stood by the med bay doors, their weapons ready if needed, "Of course if you wish to question him, I shall give you leave to march straight into the Hall of Records to confront him yourself. His reception of you may not be as pleasant as mine."

Shockwave backed down, yet the light of his optic burned with spite. Armlock's servo reached out to bring Arcee closer to him, his gesture protective and gentle. It was easy to miss, but Orion could see the slight movements of the femme as she shook beneath Shockwave's dark shadow.

"There is no need to inform the archivist," Shockwave said, "I shall bring my report back to the Guild. You must understand that it is my responsibility to carry out their mission to keep sparks in their designated place. I meant no disrespect."

Orion was sure if there was a wrench nearby Ratchet would have thrown it already.

"I take my leave then, Lord Armlock of Metrotitan, advisor of the Iaconian Council, seeking your pardon and grace. I would also extend my deepest regards to your daughter, if she was fit to receive it." The Guild-agent turned away, refusing the bow, his metal body sliding and shifting.

Armlock slammed his servo on Shockwave's shoulder. The sheer impact of his blow stopped the transformation at once.

In a fast second he twisted Shockwave around and pushed against his shoulder so hard the Guild-agent fell to his knees before the City-Lord.

"I do not care if you think of me as a traitor or an ill-fit lord," Armlock said, the kindness was gone, replaced by the threatening voice of a deadly warrior. "But do not insult my daughter in front of me."

The city guards looked lost, fearful of what the Guild might do if they failed to keep an agent safe. Yet a single shot of Armlock's optics was enough to paralyze their systems.

"As much as you use your status as a Guild-agent to manipulate even my own guards, one fact remains." Armlock said, "Arcee is my daughter and third heir. No matter how ambitious you are you will never outshine her rank. Now acknowledge her superior status or I will bend steel, iron, and spark to have the Guild revoke your status. Imagine how quickly they'll respond when I inform them how you, an enforcer of caste limits, failed to show honor to my line."

"I ask for your grace and pardon," Shockwave bowed his helm, every word heavy and bitter, "Arcee, third heir of Lord Armlock, of the ancient line of the Metrotitan City-Lords."

"I grant it," Arcee said quickly, standing tall even as her little servos gripped her father's fingers for comfort, "Now leave with your mechs and do not disturb us with these matters again."

Armlock released Shockwave, the sudden motion nearly throwing the Guild-agent backwards. The humiliated mech transformed in a flash, driving off in a fury, not minding the other bots that were hastily retreating.

"Security fields up," Armlock commanded, "No one enters here without my clearance. Anyone outside the staff will have to go through checks. I will not allow such disrespect against me or my household to take place again. Is that understood?"

The mechs at his command nodded in acknowledgement, none of them wanting his anger upon them. The protective fields spread upwards, the soft hue casting a faint blue sheen over the premises. When the fields were completely online, Arcee's calm demeanor crumbled. Armlock swept her into his massive arms, shielding her away, allowing her to cry without allowing anyone to see how truly terrified she was. The little femme almost disappeared in her father-creator's protective embrace. Orion couldn't keep himself from wondering how their bond felt like. Did they know of the other's fear, anger, relief? Did Arcee draw strength from her father's love? Did he draw strength from her fear?

"Did I do good?" Arcee asked as she looked up, "Did I act like a…a Councilor's daughter?"

"Oh my brave little one," Armlock said, the pride in his optics as clear as day, "You acted with more courage than half the Council combined."

Ratchet was venting heavily, the toll of the ordeal collapsing on him.

"Arcee, you should have stayed inside," Ratchet said, throwing his arms up in the air, "It was far too dangerous for you to have marched out to confront a mech like Shockwave. Next thing I know you'll be trying to shoot him!"

"But that's our job Ratch—"

The medic's faceplates scrunched as he located the all too familiar voice coming from somewhere above the medbay doors. One of the camera feeds revealed to Orion two little mechlings hidden above the doors, each equipped with firearms.

"Yeah Ratch. We had your back the whole time." Sunny added, waving down. He brought his gun to the light, "They weren't going to get you. We won't let them."

Ratchet tried so hard not to express anything short of annoyance towards them, but Orion could see a hint of a smile on the medic's faceplates.

"You two, get down from there. Everyone else settle down. This has been enough excitement for one day." Armlock said. He rested Arcee against his shoulder. In her father-creator's embrace the femme looked like a mere sparkling. The mech closed his tired optics as he carried his daughter away, whispering something to Ratchet as he passed by. The medic nodded, his face solemn. Orion could feel the tension snap when Ratchet looked directly at a camera, his gaze burning with the intensity to rival Shockwave.

* * *

That night no one came to visit him. And that was fine with Orion. He really didn't know what he should say after all that transpired earlier. Armlock, Ratchet, even Arcee had risked greatly in order to keep him safe. And for what? What could he possibly be to them other than a one way shot to the Guild's executioners? The thought of placing any of them in danger made Orion's tanks churn. The cube of energon before him remained untouched, his servos folded nervously on his lap.

He looked up when he heard the doors to his room open. Ratchet entered. The medic had no medical supplies with him. Instead of checking the monitors or asking the customary questions a medic would ask his patient, Ratchet pushed the cube of energon away and sat directly across from Orion.

The silence between them felt heavy and dead, as if life fled from the room. Orion didn't wish to look the medic in the optics; his shame for bringing trouble upon them all was overpowering his will to even look up.

"Listen," The medic said, "Lord Armlock has instructed me to be patient and gentle in dealing with you but given today's events I can't honor that request any longer."

Orion felt like shrinking further into himself at the medic's words, his frame far too big and grand for him. He wanted to hide. To go back into the wilderness if that could spare him anymore guilt and shame.

"You think that incident at Burthov was like steeping into the Pitt itself?" Ratchet said, leaning in closer, "That was just a glimpse of the amount of power a few disgruntled city-guards had. If a fight broke out between Armlock's mechs and Shockwave's, how much of the City-Lord's home would be left standing? Burthov may have been terrible, but I won't lie that this is a much more dangerous circle you've stumbled into. The Councilors, the Guild, all the way down to most pathetic castes are out to rid Cybertron of those they deem unfit to even live. The powerful elite are no different from the savages you saw in Burthov. The only difference is that the savages here have all the resources they need to achieve their ends."

"I would never do anything to intentionally hurt any of you," Orion said, faltering, "You have to believe me I would never—"

"It doesn't matter if your actions are intentional or not. If you do anything, give a Guild agent any reason to question your place you will not only bring yourself to termination but all those who helped you." Ratchet ignored him, "Shockwave may be a servant of the Guild but he is no fool. He's been after the rulership of Metrotitan for longer than you've been online. If you slip up and reveal yourself to be a fraud then you've just handed that maniac his claim to the City-State. But rulership of this City-State, as vital as it is, is not my greatest concern. It's Arcee…"

Ratchet vented strongly, the growl emitting from him threatening.

"I am not a creator. I hope to never be. I've never established such a bond but I can guess how crippling it must be." The medic said, "I neither sired nor carried Arcee but that little femme means more to me than I wish to admit. I was the first to hear her screams when I pulled her out from her dying carrier. I was there every klik of every fragile day of her life even when her father-creator, numb with grief, could not. I saw her spark dim a flicker away from death. And I worked ceaselessly to see it light up again. When she finally stabilized I promised myself that I would die before I allow her spark to ever dim again. We are all risking steel and spark for you. But I've taken care of her far longer than I have you. "

Orion flinched as the medic stood up, his thick servos hitting the table.

"And I won't let anyone, especially an outcast like you, bring harm to her. Do not take what happened today lightly, Orion." Ratchet warned, "For I won't."

Ratchet slid a small data pad across the table.

"Read it. Learn it til you can recite it backwards."

Orion touched the data pad, the brush of his fingers activating the device. Rows of data ran across the screen.

"Written there is the record of your entire life. Or at least the one you'll assume."

Orion blinked as he scanned the shapes and symbols aligned on the data pad.

"What do you think?" Ratchet asked, "How quickly do you think you can learn all of it?"

Orion gave no reply. He pulled his servos away from the device, his frame curling in on himself.

"Well?"

"I—I can't." Orion said softly, "I don't know how."

"You just touch the screen to activate it and scroll through the data—"

"I mean I—I don't know how to read,"

The medic stared at him, a lost for what to say.

"I tried to learn before," Orion said, "But no one in the shelters r—really knew how. And if they did, they didn't want to teach me. I'm sorry."

"Sorry isn't going to fix the problem," Ratchet took the data pad back, "You're going to learn how to read, encrypt, decipher, and transfer data. And you will learn quickly, starting tomorrow. You're going to be passing as Alpha Trion's apprentice for Primus' sake."

Orion was completely silent as the medic stood up and left, locking the doors as he walked out. Orion remained still, his spark aching terribly at the immediate emptiness. He rose from his seat very carefully, as if the wrong step could make the floor collapse from beneath him. He sank to the floor, curling up as he usually did back in Burthov. He was unaccustomed to actual berths, having nothing more than a floor to recharge on for all his life. The cube of energon remained unmoved on the table.

He closed his optics, allowing the coldness and hunger sweep over him. He thought of that one night, long ago, when he and Tron were separated by metal gates, acid raining falling upon their makeshift tent. He was starving, freezing, and hurt, yet he knew that he would have traded every comfort he had now to be with Tron again...to just see him alive, to hear the anger in his voice and calm him, to fret over his scars and heal them…

Orion's spark ached. His recharge brought him no peace. He continued to see images of Tron dying, of the world burning and swallowed in eternal chaos. There were glimpses of happier times; moments of joy that he felt weren't even his. The faces of the thirteen flashed before him, their beauty and terrifying power displayed as they fought and killed. And all throughout the images of terror he could barely hear the haunting melody of an old, broken song.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yup, Orion's got a very long way to go before he's Optimus. Actually nearly everyone I put in this mess of a tale has a long way to go. Truth be told this chapter only contained half of the actual material I wanted to cover, like appearances by Starscream, Skyfire, Sentinel, Elita, Orion getting an alt mode, more about the Primes, ect (Yikes!). But then I didn't want anyone to curse me for jamming in so much stuff into one chapter. I'll cover the rest later, after we see what Tron's been up to.


	6. Soundwave

Harsh light washed over the scrapyard, coating the jagged landscape in the shade of organic blood.

The red light, created by the old tarnished beams that ran throughout the yard, bathed the workers in a hellish glow. In the center of the yard was a massive well that spewed melted metal out in blinding spurts of golden flames. The workers, back struts bent from countless years of toil, would unload the burdens from their back and toss them into the melting pot. The heat singed their faceplates and servos, wires losing nerves and sensations, faces losing form. Each day by the fires slowly melted them alive.

Youth never lasts in the mines, much more the scrapyard. A strong, young frame would be crushed and aged within stellar cycles of going through Cybertron's garbage, sorting out what can be salvaged and disposing of the rest. The scrapyard was a large compound, designated as part of the mines. The older bots from the miner caste who could no longer work as fast, or those who suffered deformities, or those with undesirable traits would find themselves there working through fields of scrap and rubble.

In one of the fields, long work tables stretched out. Upon them laid broken machines that the scrappers would dissect and take apart, sorting each part by their size, material, and use. There were pieces from old ships and cargo freights. And on particularly cruel days, a dead body would be found amongst the trash heap, gladiators who've lost or even scrap workers who collapsed from starvation and broken sparks. It was a disgraceful act, to desecrate a frame that once held life.

But not in Kaon. in the miserable tunnels of the mines and the wretched scrapyard, there was no room to feel ashamed. Not when the body withers away from lack of energon. No. Hunger, despair, and fear drove mercy and honor out lifetimes ago. Such things were meant for the upper castes, for the polished and refined mechs who sat on councils, ruled their cities, and ignored the melting faces that live beneath them in filth.

The line of miners and disable bots picked and split the wares before them. Setting aside the good parts to be sold cheaply to merchants who would in turn fashion them into something of supposed worth. The artisans and smiths would craft their creations from the material, and the consuming castes would never know how their beautifully crafted head ornaments contained traces of some mech's spark chamber or a broken trash compactor.

" _ **FIFTEEN!"**_

The word blared through the field. The red light pulsed as the last gate into the scrap yard was opened. There was a series of fifteen gates around the scrapyard that allowed quick passage to different ports. Each gate was securely guarded and locked, opening only when a new load of scrap would be brought in to be broken up, sorted, or melted. Large mechs dragged the new shipment in, the wheels of the freight groaning and sinking into the tired earth. The mechs at the tables didn't give mind and continued on, knowing that with a new shipment came another cycle of labor with a morsel of energon to show for it.

" _ **FIFTEEN! FROM BURTHOV!"**_

The new crates were opened and the contents spilled carelessly on the ground. Bots began to pull at the array of metals and wires, trying to make sense of the mess. In their own sorry condition, they blended right in with the trash.

At the sound of the calling horn, the bots of one long row left their post to begin sorting out through the new heap. All except one who lagged behind, carefully trying to keep the precious burden on his back secure.

The wails of a sparkling remained long after the horn had ceased to sound.

"The bratling makes more noise than a pleasure drone in heat." One of the bots murmured to his companions.

"And for one with barely half a processor."

"The little half-breed should have terminated it He slows our entire line down, dragging that thing with him."

They cast heavy glances at the mech still at the sorting table. The hate from their stares made the hellish heat all the more intense. They crawled through the garbage, whispering about half-born sparklings and bastards and whores.

The words did not fall upon deaf audios. The mech was slender, tall, and full of strange grace. Though their words cut him deeply, he did not give them the satisfaction of seeing his sorrow. He turned away from them, focusing on the bundle upon his back. He unstrapped the makeshift basket and pulled from it a most pathetic creature.

It was a crooked, ugly thing. Crippled, wailing, and a helm half formed. So small and frail it was a miracle the brilliant white spark still held itself together. The sparkling's mouth was lopsided, the oral fluids leaking out as he screamed and cried. The mech brought the sparkling close to his spark and sat on the ground, enveloping the little one in his embrace. In a moment the cries faded, and the deformed child looked up at the mech with optics wide, blue, and full of life.

The light in his sparkling's optics was payment enough for any rebuke the world could throw at him. The mech brought his lips to the sparkling's helm and kissed him, and hummed sweet songs til he fell into recharge. He placed the sparkling on the basket and strapped the bundle to his back, still whispering old lullabies as he stood up to resume his work. The small moment of peace did not last.

"Drone."

The slender mech looked up. A sentry with an energon prod towered over him, pointing a dirty claw at the gate.

"To gate fifteen. Now. Or you'll be singing something much less sweet."

The carrier bowed down his helm, his servos gripping the straps that held the sparkling to his back.

"Soundwave..." He said, his voice soft. But there was pride laced through the single word, a sense of satisfaction knowing he at least had the dignity of a name, "My designation is Soundwave, and I am not a drone."

The energon prod crackled. Soundwave stood firm and stoic even as his faceplates split and bled blue from the gash. His intakes quickened as he felt his son awaking, the fear crossing over their bond.

"You're no grander than any of us. Half noble is still half scum." The sentry spat at Soundwave's chest, mocking the absence of any insignia, "Now get back to the heap, pleasure drone. Or you'll be screaming the name of every guard til you're split in two. And that little glitch on your back can watch."

Soundwave's face remained cold, as frigid and untelling as it always was. The soot and grime covering him made the trek to the gate much harder, his armor too outdated to be taking the daily toil of the yard. But he was strangely beautiful even in his state, and his careful grace seemed unsuited for such a rough land. Beneath the dirty surface was blue armor of various shades. The wires and sensors running through him were both strong and sensitive, his frame elegant yet full of might. The strange combination within him was the product of being from two extremely different lines, the crossing of a beautiful but foolish pleasure drone and a clever yet cruel noblemech.

His carrier was a stupid, frivolous pleasure bot who lusted for much more than a few credits. He still heard whispers about her, how infamously pathetic she was at anything requiring coherent thought, forever dependent on the gifts of her patrons. His sire was a proud mech, descended from an old and noble line. And he had the grave misfortune of inheriting his carrier's beauty and sire's intelligence. Neither of which served him in the scrapyard they had abandoned him to.

Soundwave's spark fell at the memory. His carrier died when he was still very young. But he was old enough to remember her drunken stupors, her mindless ramblings, and shameless manners. And old enough to find her cold and dead in the alley of a brothel with her helm burned and smashed in. His sire, he never saw in his life. The most he knew was that the mech simply didn't care and that he apparently inherited more than his intelligence from him. There were certain features uncommon to the lower castes, the tentacles that began to appear when he was nearing adolescence, the way he could invade another's mind if he wanted to, his speed, grace, and finesse…. It was a curse for him. To look like a pleasure bot but have the mind of an intellect. He recalled how the supervisor of the scrapyard, upon learning of his noble features, immediately had him restrained and taken to a medic. All to lock his t-cog and disable the tentacles from working. The procedure left him with ruined codes and useless limbs that were promptly locked in his frame. The loss of motion was paralyzing. And since then, Soundwave rarely felt whole again.

 **::Except you, little Shadow::**  Soundwave told his son over their bond. The sparkling's reply was broken, but the carrier sent back a hum of reassurance  **::You are the part of me I can never get back. And that is a good thin** **g. A very good thing. For me to be broken and you to be whole::**

He smiled when he heard a string of chirps and beeps from the bundle.

Soundwave looked down, still smiling at the tiny chunk of energon he found while scavenging in his shift. It was dirty, dark, and barely filled his palm, but it would help them get through the night. He walked a bit faster, and hid the small bite of energon in his empty leg compartment. It was a little treasure, and more fortunate mechs would have tossed it out, but to his family it meant another bite to eat and another cycle to function.

"Get the scarp on the tables! Hurry up or you'll be picking your own pieces from the floor," The supervisor of the scrapyard yelled over them, the terrible stench of a quick frag and high grade wafting from him. He strutted above them from a raised platform, a metal rod in his servos that would flicker as he whipped it out, sending a harsh crackle through the air. The sight of him, acting so high and mighty like a damned king made Soundwave cringe. The supervisor was a stout, heavy mech, his green armor stained from years of endless drinking and debauchery. He laughed as he snapped the whip again, and the mechs below would cower at his display of dominance.

 **::Do you see him?::**  Soundwave said to his son  **::How he tries to be the Prime of the scrapyard? It is because there is nothing else he can aspire to::**

"What are you staring at? On your knees, crawl under there and get the pieces from the heap." The task-maskers pushed Soundwave towards the scraps, and out of fear for his child he promptly began his work.

"Such an awful mix. How stupid the things the Guild allows to happen, to have these cross breeds thrown to our caste."

Soundwave flinched as the whip swung again, not to him but to a femme who dared to look straight into a task-master's optics. Soundwave kept his helm down, once in a while glancing up to see the outcast bastards like him crawl through filth and grime.

He hummed a tune to his son, turning the tossing and sorting of metal into a steady rhythm he could sing to. The songs eased the sparkling, but it was difficult to calm him when the sounds of slavery snapped around them. The lash of whips, the smacking of prods, and the strikes and kicks against crying bodies.

"Careful! Mind what can be sold. Don't let your dirty servos break them! This scrap is worth more than your pathetic lives combined. Careful! Careful! You diminish the price and it's a beating for you!"

Soundwave's servos gripped the earth, squeezing the moisture out. He composed himself as best as he could, but his frame still trembled. The weight on his shoulders kept him going.

There was a crash as a chunk of machinery was pulled from beneath the pile, the motion causing the hill of trash to slide over the workers. Soundwave jumped back, dodging the spill while slower mechs found themselves knee deep in garbage.

"There's a living mech in the scrapheap! Hurry! Come see!"

The declaration of a living mech in a shipment of scrap was curious enough to catch even the supervisor off guard. The poor workers watched, apprehensive and suspicious as the task-masters gathered around the near lifeless body. Soundwave walked closer to catch a glimpse of the unexpected arrival.

"Where did this shipment come from again?" The supervisor huffed, kicking the mechling sprawled on the ground.

"From the slums of Burthov." The gate keeper said, "How in Primus' name did he get in the crates?"

"How in Unicorn's did he survive the trip?" Another added, "That's damnable."

"Doesn't matter to me." The supervisor said, "He'll be dead in a click. Crush his chassis. Put him out of his misery. And you—"

Soundwave was frozen as the sleazy mech pointed a fat finger at him.

"You—disassemble him. Sort out the parts. Melt the rest."

The dying mech's frame was shattered and trembling as Soundwave approached him. Soundwave's spark was guarded, his emotions burned out from a lifetime of grief. But when he knelt down beside the crushed body, he could hear short, rugged, breaths, the sound turning into a mumbled word….one that sounded like a name.

"Orrrr….," The silver mech shuddered. "Orrrrr…Ori….Orion…"

His optics opened, red and delirious from hunger and injury. His servo was bent, but still reaching out, the fingers closing together as if to hold on to something not there.

 **::He is young::**  Soundwave observed the stranger, the wounds on his body and face, the way the frame split at the seams **::Yet he looks like one who has died a hundred deaths::**

"O…Orrr…"

"Is…is that your name?" Soundwave asked. He reached out to touch the body, expecting it to be cold and frail. Instead he felt warmth and strength beneath each shudder.

Instantly the supervisor struck the ground beside him.

"It doesn't matter what his damned name is. He's good as gone."

"He still lives." Soundwave said, his concern surprising even him, "He will survive but he needs care."

"Which he won't find here."

"He came from Burthov right? There were stories going around the yard about a massacre that happened there, about entire shelters destroyed. They must be true. We've been getting scrap shipments from there every deca-cycle."

"I won't argue with a stupid half-wit. Just do what you were made for and either frag a guard or pick up scarp."

"He is strong!" Soundwave pleaded, "If he survived the massacre of Burthov and ended up all the way here in Kaon still intact he must be."

Soundwave's argument silenced the supervisor for once.

"Allow him to recover. You will see. He is strong. He can work. He can lift up the cargo the older miners can't. Or travel into the tunnels no one else will venture too. He is more valuable alive."

"And how exactly do you mean for him to recover? You think you can summon a medic here on a whim? Decent ones at least?"

"I have ways," Soundwave said, shaking his helm, "It will cost you nothing."

The superior mechs regarded him in silence for a moment, considering his words. And then they laughed, as if saving a dying mech's life was nothing more than a game.

"So you'll take in another pet eh? Well, very well. Let's see how long you'll welcome him when he's taking your ration of energon."

"You will spare him?" Soundwave said. It was a strange protectiveness he felt towards the stranger, one he couldn't quite explain, "And allow him to stay on the yard?"

"If he proves to be of worth as you claim," The green mech laughed. He waved away the task-masters and other workers who gathered into a crowd, "The rest of you get back to work! I want this all sorted to be sold in the next mega-cycle."

The supervisor unraveled his whip, snapping it softly in the air.

"As for you, drone, mind how you speak to your superiors. Or I swear I'll rip your pretty face plates right off your skull."

Soundwave bowed his helm, all the while daring to imagine how it would feel to have the whip, to slice it through the air and cut the helm right off the task-masters shoulders. But the fantasy ended quickly and the stranger trembled, the sparkling cried, and the song of slaves groaned all around. He pulled the broken mech out of the scarps. And with the child on his back, and a stranger leaning against him, he made the journey towards home.

Home was not very far. It was a simple nook in the side of high, crooked slabs of stone that was more suited as a den for an animal than an actual place to live. But it was quiet there, peaceful, and cold, all things that gave Soundwave comfort. Other nooks and caves were scattered in the scrapyard, all residences for the workers who never really found release from their labors. Above their home pulsed the same red glow that covered them in work, the security field always up and ready to fry anyone who dared to escape. Soundwave wondered many times why the sky was blotted out by the field. There were no flyers in the mines, no seeker slaves who could actually get high. enough to try to breech it. And even if there were they'd be shot down and have their wings torn out. But it had been ages since a seeker was last tossed into the scrapyard. Soundwave remembered it well. The poor thing didn't last a deca-cycle. Wearing a high caste insignia in the mines was more like wearing a target, and the disgraced seeker made for good sport.

It was fortunate then, that the silver mech had no mark. It would be easier for him to assimilate. And he was strong, it was obvious by how he still held on to life. He would prove his worth soon enough.

Soundwave held a cube of energon by the doorway, watching as the medic finished up his long work of repairing the new arrival. The medic took the energon from him as he left, the agreed payment for services rendered. That single cube was a small fortune, but it was all Soundwave had to trade, and he was conscious of the fact that his sparkling would not eat that night.

"I can spare half this cube," The medic slurred, reaching out to touch Soundwave's slender arms, "In exchange for one night…"

"You mistake me for my carrier, sir," Soundwave said, dodging his touch, "We are far from the same."

"Truly? I recall dear Satine dragging you behind her, same as you drag your little bastard around." The medic taunted. He was an old, perverted bot who had his license revoked for dealing in illegal practices. Ever since then he made his living off poor, ignorant bots who needed medical care. Soundwave however, was not one of them, and knew the ways of manipulation well enough to not fall for anyone's tricks. And he knew how to control himself, although his spark wanted nothing more than to silence the medic's insults.

"Ah, I must be going. The sentries wished for a medical visit."

At the mention of the sentries, Soundwave's stoic face faltered, and his intakes grew heavy. The medic smiled and laughed, the sound sick and cruel.

"They still talk of you. They always compare your taste with your carrier's. They seemed to enjoy you more. Perhaps one day I can judge for myself."

"You're already paid for your services." Soundwave said, his words even and cold, "Now leave. This is not a brothel and I am not a pleasure drone."

"Your lineage says otherwise," The medic said, "No one will ever forget that. You mustn't either. It is deadly to step out from your place."

"I see death every day. It hasn't come for me yet. And it won't take me any time soon." Soundwave stood by the open door, "Now get out."

"You'll be begging anyone to frag you for energon once the famine hits," The medic sneered as he walked out, "Then we'll see if your dignity can feed you."

Soundwave turned to his guest as soon as the medic was out of sight. There was no berth in the den, and the medic had done repairs with his patient on the floor. The patient underwent crude but functional repairs to his audio and vocal components, and to his shattered knee joints. The dents covering his frame would heal over time, but he required much nutrients and attention, things that Soundwave wasn't certain he could spare.

The crippled Shadow chirped curiously in the corner. His carrier picked him up, wiping the fluids drooling from his lop-sided mouth. He cleaned the black and red armor of his son, carefully ensuring to not damage the fragile wires beneath. The sparkling's bent arms waved up at him, caressing his face and smiling a silly half turned grin. Soundwave wondered if his son could comprehend the world he was in, and how incredibly poor and miserable their home was. The sparkling curled up against his chassis, chirping away at the sound of his carrier's spark.

Soundwave caressed the sleeping sparkling as he watched the stranger in fascination, wondering who he was and how he came to such a miserable state.

 **::Will anyone show kindness to my Shadow?::**  Soundwave thought, dreading the truth that should he die his son would be completely lost in a merciless world, easy prey for those with cruel intentions  **::Will anyone care if my sparkling suffered?::**

It occurred then to Soundwave that it was his love for his son that drove him to help the wounded mech. It was the love for his tiny, half-formed Shadow that renewed his mercy and compassion; two things he believed were long burned out of him. He thought of his own son, pinned under rubble, broken and helpless. Surely someone would help. There must still be some good left in Kaon, even in the scrapyard.

And with those troubling thoughts he prayed. It was his secret that he still prayed to Primus, a deity many in the mines had forsaken ages ago. He prayed for his son to be granted mercy, as he granted mercy to the strange silver mech. He prayed for the mech to live, for him to speak and tell him of the things seen beyond the red field.

Soundwave's rare moments of complete solitude were filled with thoughts of the world beyond, of the cities and wonders he heard of but never could quite grasp. His vision of the world was restricted to the scrapyard, mines, and gladiator pits. Oh yes, the dreaded gladiator pits were he and the workers were forced to attend a public execution of rebels. Was the world outside better or worse than his own existence? He thirsted for the knowledge, and he prayed to one day find out, that he could step over the red field and look up at an untainted sky.

He smiled as a familiar figure crawled to the den, a morsel of hard energon in its jaws.

"Ravage,"

The cybertronic beast approached at the command. He was very thin, his armor coated in dirt from scavenging through the earth. He curled up at the pedals of his master, dropping the slab of energon onto Soundwave's servos. A moment later, a winged creature glided into their home, also carrying a small measure of energon in his talons and beak.

"Excellent work, Ravage, Laserbeak." Soundwave said, dividing the shares among them and setting some aside from when their guest would awake. For himself he took one bite, and retrieved the sliver of energon hidden on his leg compartment to break apart for his son.

Laserbeak perched on a ledge above them, gnawing at the hard bit of energon with his beak, his wings tattered and folded. The bird was once part of an impressive line of symbiotes, breed to be curious pets for the upper castes. His life began in privilege as the pampered pet of spoiled sparklings from a wealthy city. But like most fashionable trends, he was soon discarded when a new hit emerged. Soundwave found him with broken wings in the trash heap. He was first one he rescued from being off-lined, and certainly not the last.

Ravage rested contently by Soundwave's feet, the scars on his face and neck told tales of his time in the gladiator pits. Soundwave would often find bots of Ravage's kind in the scrap heaps after gladiators tore them to shreds. It was common after a grand fight for the losers to be found in the trash. Ravage was pouring out massive amounts of energon when Soundwave found him. The beast recovered his strength under Soundwave's care, and for that he earned his loyalty.

It was an odd little family they made, Soundwave being the caretaker and the two symbiotes his companions. Their presence made the labors of the yard more tolerable, and it gave him some reason to return each day. They were all far from healthy, but they still lived. The prangs of hunger remained, but Soundwave ignored it and lifted up bits of energon for his son, praising him as he tried to feed.

"Orion…"

Soundwave settled his son beside Ravage. The cat-like beast nuzzled the sparkling's helm, eliciting a string of happy chirps and whirls from little Shadow.

"Orion…Orr…"

"Is that your name?" Soundwave asked, turning the mech's helm to look up at him. The red optics were dim, "Are you Orion?"

The silver mech shook his helm weakly. His chassis rose and fell in shallow breaths.

"N…no. Orion…where is…"

His frame arched with tension then collapsed. Soundwave took the remaining energon, crushed it, and lifted him up to feed. The silver one's face contorted with the pain of movement. It took hours, but bit by bit Soundwave managed to get him to consume the energon. The feeding alone seemed to drain his energy, and afterwards the young silver mech simply sat upon the ground, his optics gazing off; his claws formed into fists.

Ravage growled at the intruder. Soundwave calmed him.

"Mech from Burthov, what is your name?"

The wounds on the new arrival's face seemed to open as he strained to get the words out.

"He…he called me…Tron."

And with that, his optics closed and he spoke no more.

* * *

Time went by but it brought no relief. Tron's recovery was slow, painful, and in Soundwave's optics also very lonesome. The wrecked mech barely spoke to anyone, and Soundwave worried if his vocalizer would ever fully heal. Tron barely consumed the energon he was given, and left Soundwave's home as soon as he was able to walk again without a single word of thanks. But Soundwave took no offense. There were worse things that could have happened.

Tron managed to find a large enough cell carved into the rock quarry for him to stay in. It was a dingy place from what Soundwave could tell each time he would pass there. There were times when Laserbeak and Ravage would find an extra bit of energon, and Soundwave would take it to Tron's little corner. The mech didn't speak, but he didn't turn away the offer either. Once, Soundwave stayed long enough to notice strange marks along the wall, lines that seemed to increase in number each time he came by. Was Tron counting something? Soundwave never really asked though, knowing he would be answered by silence. There was another figure etched on the wall, it appeared to be composed of lines to form a face. But again, Soundwave did not ask.

It was soon after that, that Soundwave found Tron working alongside the mechs by the gate, carrying heavy crates on his shoulders to disperse to the dissecting tables. The silver one was built for endurance if minimal energon consumption could get him through such tiring work. It troubled Soundwave how Tron took on more dangerous tasks as time went by, even venturing out into the mines with no one else to support him should the earth collapse. There were others before that behaved that way, mechs and femmes who sought danger to invite death. It made him imagine what went through Tron's processor. If he wanted to die, why not just throw himself into the melting pools and be done with it? What hope still held him here?

Orion. It was such a heavenly name to say in such a Primus-forsaken place. And yet Soundwave would sometimes hear Tron whisper it, when the fires would scourge him and the heavy loads crushed his back, and when the energon shortages would leave them all starving and cold. The name was like a prayer, scared and cherished. What had become of this Orion? What drove Tron to revere him so?

There were questions he hoped one day to know the answers to. But for now, Soundwave's priorities rested in keeping his Shadow close to him. The sparkling barely grew, his growth stunted and his deformities became more prominent as the stellar-cycles passed.

Soundwave would spend the nights simply watching his son recharge, amazed by how such a tiny being could bring so much meaning to him. Amazed by how something conceived in violence could turn into a peaceful, trusting creature. His spark burned at the memory.

* * *

There was a time long ago, when Soundwave had the voice to defy another. His pride was whole then. He fought all his life to be far from what his carrier's lineage dictated him to be. He was intelligent, beautiful, his virtue still intact. And it did not please his superiors to have someone who should be a pleasure drone, question them or demonstrate intelligence far greater than their own.

He still couldn't recall what lead up to it, or what set him into a rage. A sentry had done something, insulted him, and he lashed out with a tentacle, striking the guard full on the face. The guard was shocked, both by the fact that the tentacles were able to surpass the locks placed on them and by the sheer audacity that a slave would strike him. His punishment was not swift.

His tentacles were ripped from him. The guard grabbed his helm and dragged towards the quarters of the sentries. Their faces were all blurred, the fluid bursting out of his optics as they reminded him in brutal fashion of the lineage he was descended from. They took their time, each one ripping him deeper than the last. It felt like all the energon was spilling from him, the deep wires snapped and twisted as they pounded him every which way they pleased.

"You're just one in a long line of whores and bastards,"

Of all the humiliating things said to him that night, it was that phrase he never forgot. For in that horrible moment he believed it; and that belief allowed him to accept it, and the acceptance eased the pain.

But when they forced open his chest plates, the fear and pain sprung twisted into a great and consuming horror. One by one they merged with him, crushing his fleeting spark beneath their own. They saw his pain, his grief, and hopes, and they laughed at it all.

When they tired of him, they tossed him out, wounds still fresh and spark still broken. He crawled back to his home, a trail of fluid trickling down from his legs to stain the earth. It wasn't very long until he discovered he was carrying. The news horrified him, and brought great amusement to the guards. The word spread through the scrapyard, and whispers were spoken wickedly about him.

It was common knowledge that no sparkling could be born out of rape. An unwilling spark-merge would cause the carrier's spark to reject the potential sire, thus preventing any pregnancy. The fact that Soundwave was sparked was proof enough for them that he enjoyed it. And it destroyed Soundwave to know that although he never found pleasure in it, he still allowed one of their sparks to defile his. It never occurred to anyone who gossiped about him that the reason why he was sparked wasn't due to his willingness, but rather due to the fact his body was simply too deprived of nutrients to effectively reject his attacker's spark. But the implication still remained, and the words against him never ceased.

He was forced to carry the thing. It would be an example he was told, of what happens to pleasure drones who fancied themselves above their station. Besides, his superiors wanted to know what the result of their work would look like. Wide belief held that a sparkling's appearance and health was influenced by the relationship its creators shared. What would Soundwave's little burden appear to be? How hideous could the thing become?

And Soundwave welcomed the thought of death more with each cycle the sparkling grew within him.

When the screaming sparkling was finally pulled out of him, Soundwave thought he wanted nothing more than to kill the thing with his own servos. It took one glance at his son paralyze him. He felt it early on; he knew within his spark the child would be monstrous. But he wasn't prepared for the extent of the injuries.

The sparkling's processor was half-formed, his face loped to a side with gears and wires exposed. His thin, crippled, legs limped out of a deformed torso. The shriveled arms were long and splintered at the joints. And the superiors were delighted, quickly sending Soundwave out into the scrapheap with birth fluid still flowing out of him as he staggered and fell. They lifted the wailing sparkling up for all to see; a lesson for those who would ever dare step out of line. The drone brought out another bastard to add to his line, and the world was back to how it should be.

When their sport was done, they tossed the sparkling to the ground. The pathetic thing's shrieks suddenly ceased, a sick snap cracked through the silence, and Soundwave's spark felt a most unexpected jolt of fear. The thing was twitching like a broken machine, the faint whirls dying out, little crooked servos waving aimlessly, the sensitive surface armor still sticky from the birth. Soundwave did not know if the energon caking the thing was from the delivery or the impact of the fall.

He recalled the moments he spent simply watching the thing, entertaining the thought of leaving it to die in the scrapheap. His spark was cold. It always was, ever since he saw his carrier's dead form reeking from the heavy scent of interface, high-grade, and burnt metal. He tried to turn from the thing, but his spark was drawn to it, fearing not  _of_ it but  _for_  it. He could not explain the chaotic mess that wrapped around his spark. Even the strength of his hate, fear, and sorrow could not erase a newfound bond. He tried to quench it. He raised a servo to crush the hideous head in one swift motion…

But then the blue optics turned to him. They were dim, fickle, and small. There was something in those optics that Soundwave never expected to see, and a glimpse of it was enough to still his servo. The sparkling kept gazing at him, the blue optics so pure and trusting. It was foolish to think so, but for a while it seemed as if the sparkling knew who he was, what they were to each other. Soundwave reached out gently. The brush of his fingers against the child calmed the sparkling's cries. And his spark flared to life again.

When the little one was lifted from the dirt, the carrier brought him close to his spark. The child sought its warmth and for once in many years Soundwave felt both fear and joy at once. This thing cast upon him, no matter how horrible, was the one thing in the universe that was truly, solely, his. The twisted, broken frame, was his. The wails, whirls, and cries, were his. Those two beautiful blue lights that stared up at him, knowing him and trusting him, those were his. The sparkling was his. Completely and truly his. And that simple knowledge brought him happiness. And his joy and love for the little shadow flourished, giving him a sense of mercy and compassion he thought died long ago.

* * *

A loud, blaring horn shook the air, pulling Soundwave from his memories. Ravage and Laserbeak stirred from their recharge, growling and snapping their claws and jaws at the sound. Soundwave clenched his son against his chassis, glimpsing outside their little cave to see the workers returning with empty energon cubes. The look of defeat, hunger, and desperation was worn by all. Once again the horn sounded. There were shouts. There were sounds of a riot, the crackling of whips, and the screams of the dying. Outside, large dark figures marched through the scrap fields, and smaller shadows raced through in order to escape the lash of the whip or strike of the servo.

Soundwave hurried back to the corner of his cave. From the dark crevice of that corner he drew out a crude weapon fashioned from stone. He took a glance of the tiny energon cubes he stored, and quickly went to work burying them out of sight. His crude knife he kept close to his side, his slumbering Shadow never leaving his arms.

The famine had arrived.


	7. Shadow

"There is another sky beyond this red one, my Shadow. It is blue, as bright and brilliant as your optics. And it reaches far, far up, so far that not even the seekers can touch it."

Soundwave whispered, his words breaking as the light in his son's optics flickered. To his credit, Shadow managed a sick moan in reply.

"And there are cities filled with golden light. It shines from within, just as your spark shines within you."

The blue carrier rocked the broken sparkling, trying his best to soothe the pain he felt resonating through their bond.

"There are beautiful gardens I've heard of since I was a sparkling. Gardens upon shimmering hills made of countless crystals. I have always wanted to see them. One day I will bring you there. We will count each one."

Shadow's optics stared blankly up at him. Sick, thick, moisture dripped from his crooked mouth. His tiny frame shuddered, and his carrier's spark twisted at the sight.

"And we will run beneath their colors together." Soundwave whispered, "I would like that very much. Give me that chance, my little Shadow. Please….please eat something."

He lifted a small morsel of energon to the sparkling's mouth, the last bit left. The sparkling licked twice, then drew back, spewing up foul smelling globs from his mouth. Soundwave wiped his son's faceplates clean of the substance, only to quickly withdraw in horror as his son's metal easily bruised and dented beneath his gentle touch.

"Primus. I beg you. Do not do this." Soundwave cried as he tenderly cradled his son. He observed dying bots long enough to know that weakened plating was just one sign of a slow and painful dying process brought by severe starvation.

"Do not do this," The carrier sank to the dry, cold earth, barricading his son with his long arms, "Primus please…Do not take him."

The sparkling's optics rolled limply upwards. In the silence and darkness of their meager home, the little one's struggles seemed to amplify. Every shudder of his frame, every stuttering intake, and choking cry sounded like a world dying upon his carrier's audios. Soundwave continued to pray, raising his voice to the only thing he hoped might still care. But soon his words ran dry, as all he could do was huddle his dying child towards the beat of his own weak spark.

There were noises outside, the collective chorus of misery, illness, and abuse that increased as the famine devoured the land. The energon cubes Soundwave stored were quickly depleted, and where Lasberbeak and Ravage went to no one really knew. Perhaps they found a way out of the scrapheap. Perhaps they were captured and eaten. Or maybe they off-lined in a dark place littered with corpses…

"It won't happen here. Not to us," Soundwave said, "I can promise you that."

The sparkling sent a faint pulse along their bond, one not of understanding but of complete trust. And it broke Soundwave's spark to feel the purity of it.

"Oh my sweet, little Shadow,"

Suddenly the slender mech was grateful for the darkness for it hid the tears he vowed no one would ever see.

The carrier carefully placed his son against one arm, the other one he raised up towards his glossa. There were numerous exposed wires along the underside, brought about by poor maintenance and nutrients. Soundwave found one, a minor line close to the joint of his wrist and bit down hard. He flinched as the line snapped, the sting burning against the cold air. Blue fluid trickled out in a slow but steady line down his servo.

"Here Shadow," Soundwave adjusted the sparkling, offering the energon from his own body, "Please…please take some."

In a healthy state, the carrier could produce fine energon to nurture their young from their feeding lines. Soundwave's systems however, had suffered too greatly to sustain even that function. There was absolutely nothing else he could give to Shadow but himself.

It was slow, grueling work, but the fluid was easier for the sparkling to take and when the line finally sealed and dried Shadow fell into recharge. Soundwave wiped the remnants of blue from his son's face, smiling a bit at the simple contentment he saw. The crippled sparkling chirped softly and curled in his carrier's arms. The ache of hunger eased as Soundwave calmed his son through the bond, intentionally blocking out the fears that would soon encompass him once the child was safely asleep.

He spent hours staring at the deformed sparkling, humming to him and stroking his dented helm gently. His optics watched diligently, fearful that if he turned away for one moment the child's spark would finally snuff out and leave him completely alone in the maddening silence. At times the sparkling's optics would flutter open, pale blue and hazed from slumber. Oh, if only there was energon those optics would be bluer still, the two orbs brilliant and wide, holding everything beautiful in the world.

"And there truly is still beauty left in this world, as cruel and uncaring as it is," Soundwave whispered, tracing his son's face. The wound on his wrist stung at the motion, "And I will give of myself to keep it."

His own words damned the thought welcomed dark ideas into his mind.

Just how much of himself could he give this crippled, deformed, creature forced upon him? How much energon would he allow himself to bleed? How many lines could he cut? How many nights could he spent ceaselessly praying for his tiny spark to keep beating?

_**::All. Everything::** _

Soundwave kissed his son's helm. He gently laid the sparkling down in the darkest corner, in a nook along the wall. True to his name, the child blended perfectly in.

_**:::Wait for me::**_  Soundwave said, sending warmth through the bond. Shadow whirled contently in his slumber, his crooked little fingers reaching out and brushing against his carrier's slender ones.

The simple touch strengthened Soundwave's resolve. He prayed once more, smiling as his son's fingers held on to his. Then he pulled away, stood to his full height, and began the long walk to the resting quarters of the scrapyard guards.

* * *

"There is indeed a shipment arriving," The guard confirmed, his yellow optics narrowing with interest at the slender form before him, "When it will arrive, Unicron knows."

Soundwave nodded slightly, his servos tight against his sides. The guard speaking to him was twice his size, dark in colors and reeking of rotten high grade. The other ones watching them fared no better. Chipped paint, rusted metal, frames seeped in cheap polish and fingers caked with old energon, that's what the scrapyard guards were made of. Soundwave kept his composure even as he felt their wandering optics studying his body.

"And what are the measurements for the rations?" Soundwave asked.

The guard scoffed.

"Those incoming rations are for essential workers only. The rest can get what's left, if there's any left to be spared—"

"Three cubes," Soundwave said, "Set aside three cubes in my name."

The guards lifted their heavy helms and laughed, their collective voices a deep, unwelcome rumble.

"Most bots here have never seen three cubes at one time in their entire lives,"

"I was never made to be like most," Soundwave replied.

He took a step forward. The guards' resting quarters were fairly lit that night, though the solitary light above stained the room in a pale red hue. In the strange light Soundwave's armor appeared a deep, rich blue, inviting and alluring their lustful eyes.

"Indeed," One of the guards slurred. He stood up beside his comrade and ran a sloppy finger over Soundwave's liplates, "I've heard of you. The guards who planted that half-formed bastard inside you swear you give a damn good show."

His love for that half-formed creature outweighed his urge to split the mech's helm in half. Instead he merely reached out, touching the guard's broad chassis and dipping his elegant fingers into the seams. The guard's intakes hitched, his sensors igniting under the caress.

"I am willing to negotiate," Soundwave said. He kept his spark calm, trying to remember how his carrier would lure in her prey. The dread of what was to come crept through him, shooting up his spine and spreading through his systems. He shuddered as his sensors picked up the rising heat of the mechs, the crackle of their energy flickering towards him.

"I'll give you whatever you want," Soundwave said. He sank to his knees slowly, his optics never breaking contact with the mech before him, his long fingers traveling down. "In whatever way you please."

"Three cubes is much too high a price for a single mech on a single night—"

"What are the terms?" Soundwave asked.

"There's nothing kept hidden here," One of the guards came up behind him. Thick, sticky servos rubbed roughly along Soundwave's shoulder blades, "We share our spoils and our whores."

The elegant mech didn't pull away even as he felt the others raise up to join them. His optics blazed, the most brilliant light in that filthy room. His processor stalled, his body moving passively as they fastened in wrists and pinned him to the ground. Soundwave retracted his panel swiftly.

"Eager," The mechs above him laughed, their foul breath hot and stinging against Soundwave's face.

**::My Shadow, do not fear. I will return soon::**  Soundwave reached for his son through their bond. When he was sure his son was at peace he closed their connection, shielding the innocent spark from the torment ahead.

Soundwave turned his helm away as the first mech reached between his legs. He gasped. Gross, uncaring fingers stretched him, cruelly and deeply. He bucked, the motion amusing his new patrons.

"You want this."

"No," Soundwave's voice crackled in the air. The word vanished into a cry as the guard twisted his fingers within, "I need this."

_For the cubes_

The slender mech bit back his glossa as his legs were hitched up on the guard's massive shoulders. His servos squeezed the ground until his fingers were buried deep in the high-grade soaked earth. He forced away his cries as a spike broke through the rim of his valve. With a sudden thrust the mech drilled Soundwave to the ground.

_For my Shadow._

Soundwave choked, refusing to sob openly for their pleasure as his valve bleed and tore. He could sense their dark energies drowning his own, their fields hazed with lust and a sick sense of power. Beneath the grunts and groans of the mech plowing into him, he could barely hear the tell-tale clicks of panels retracting and engines flaring.

The first mech wasn't even done when his impatient comrades began their assault, grabbing Soundwave, opening him, and ripping him from each other.

Their lust was rampant. Soundwave's valve, face, and frame shuddered, the vile mix of their transfluids pouring out from him as they abused him in every way. He held his cries together, with each new mech that took him he imagined those three cubes. He imagined dipping his fingers into the life-giving substance and bringing it up for his sparkling to taste…and Shadow's beautiful optics shining brightly as they ran beneath crystal trees on a shimmering hill…

"A smile I see," The guard kissed Soundwave's neck roughly, "It fits you well pleasure drone,"

The term triggered something deep inside his spark. The disgust he walled inside of him burst out in an anguished laugh, both at the cruelty of their ways and his own willingness to endure every wretched touch and bruising kiss.

His body heaved as their dirty fingers dipped into the cervices of his chassis, right where his spark flared in fury and hatred. Somewhere with the violent turmoil, his love for Shadow remained, the solitary light that kept him open for the guards to abuse in exchange for a chance to save the broken child.

_No. Not a pleasure drone._

Soundwave shut his optics, the tears finally slipping from him.

_Carrier._

Soundwave was cold and numb by the time their sport was done. How long he laid unmoving on the ground, no one knew for certain. But for Soundwave it felt like a lifetime. The fluids splattered all over him caked and stuck like hideous stains on his dark armor, and the more he tried to cleanse them the more they spread and marred him. He crawled slowly to his pedals, biting down his glossa to keep his cries at bay as he stood. He staggered forth, helm bowed down in shame, his optics hazed. Shivers spread through his legs, growing colder where the foul mix of fluids seeped freely from his torn valve. The guards whistled and chimed lazily as he left, their lust sated for the time being.

The dark blue mech limped his way back towards his make-shift home, his body shaking with each step. The energon continued to flow from him, bright, blue, and hideous upon the dark coppery earth.

From the corner of his vision he saw a figure of silver watching him. He dared to turn, and quickly looked away once more. He could think of nothing else but to laugh. He cupped his bruised face, as if it would hold his words and emotions together. His laughter, weak, bitter, and near insane, grew softer and deeper until nothing else left him but energon and tears.

The silver one simply watched him, Tron's face unmoving and solemn. He was a frightening figure to behold now, the work of the mines scarring and shaping him into a monstrous form. Tron's optics flickered, and he stepped forward, for moment his servo raised up. Soundwave couldn't decide if it was to help him or mock him.

Then there was a shout in the distance, and the snap of a whip.

Soundwave's face paled, his frame shook, and with his last bout of strength he staggered long enough to reach the cave he called home, and to cradle the little one he called his shadow.

He crawled to the broken sparkling. He held him close to his own shaking body, looking down to see Shadow's optics rolling back, dull, sick, and seeping with thin trails of goo. Several wires along the sparkling's optics had ripped apart in his absence, the severe lack of nutrients dealing another blow to the little one.

"You won't take him. You can't." Soundwave rocked back and forth, his helm shaking, "Take what you demand of me but please….Primus I beg you..."

The carrier's voice choked as his tears fell upon the malformed face of his only source of joy. He tried to speak, to cry to Primus in an anguished prayer. But no words came. And all his prayers had long been spent.

* * *

Soundwave awoke with red light across his face and the sounds of excitement all around.

"To the gates! To the gates! A shipment is coming! From Iacon's reserves."

"Energon… Oh Primus, preserve us—"

"There's a crowd over there. Quickly. Get to the gates!"

"The gates!"

The shouts pulled Soundwave to his pedals. Pain cracked along the circuits of his aching body, but he took one step forward, his spark resolute in his mission.

"Do you hear that my Shadow?" Soundwave said, smiling weakly as he cradled the whimpering child, "It's your energon. The one I bought for us. You will be well soon. You will be whole."

The carrier's intakes grew heavy, his spark bursting in relief. Their salvation was at hand. And all he need do was demand the payment for his disgrace.

A massive crowd was already at the gates when Soundwave arrived. No less than a hundred were there, optics red from hunger and illness, their bodies coarse, jagged, and falling apart. There was a small freight covered in dark metal waiting at the gate, the seal of Iacon pressed on the front. Guards were stationed around and above it, their energon whips and prods already firing at the masses. Bent, splintered servos reached up, their palms open and trembling for a drop of the bright blue nutrient. Other servos where not as docile. The stronger miners grabbed the edges of the barricade, throwing in their strength to uproot the gate from its foundations.

The metal bodies pressed violently against each other, the smaller frames easily falling and crushing against the heavy waves. The noise was deafening. It was the cry of the hungry child, the angry roar of the abused miner, the dying pleas of creators, and the lash of the whip and blast of the gun. The chorus was tumultuous, as hideous and chaotic as the desperate masses fighting for a glimpse of energon.

One of the guards, tall, dark, and immense, blasted a shot into the air from an ion canon. The shock forced the crowd back, but their optics remained fierce and wild, like caged beasts rattled to a frenzy.

"Out of the way! Or this freight will plow right through your miserable bodies."

"That energon belongs to us. It was given by Iacon!"

"Yes. Given by Iacon to fuel the machines for their wares and trinkets. Now back away! Away with all of you. Or the next blast will go through your helms!"

The gates suddenly opened, and the poor bots who were too close were crushed against the weight. The grinding sounds made the screams more sickening, more visceral as the ground and gates erupted in energon and oil.

Soundwave covered his son's helm, shielding him away from the sound. He ran back, horrified when the freight drove through the open gates, the uncaring guards plowing through the remaining riot. Their horrible weapons blazed with mad heat, the rapid shots firing into the helpless crowd. For a moment the angry shouts became wails of regret and defeat. A tiny mech managed to climb against the side of the freight, his weak servos beating frantically to get to the gleaming blue energon inside. A guard reached over and smashed the youngling's helm, tossing the limp body into the crying crowd.

"The reserve is for those who earn it! The guards and gatekeepers, the ones who keep the rest of you in their fragging lines." The head guard shot another warning into the air. Soundwave's spark flailed wildly as he recognized him. He pressed Shadow closer to him, and both carrier and creation trembled, fear striking through their bond.

The leader of the guards looked down at the quivering, bowed helms before him. Soundwave staggered forward, Shadow's whimpering cries overshadowing his processor's warnings for him to simply turn away.

The other guards watched in mild amusement and annoyance, a few even snickering as they recognized the mech who so willingly came to them a few nights before.

"I—I have earned it," Soundwave said, clutching his son against his chassis, more out of his own comfort than anything else, "I have given my share of the bargain. Now I ask for yours."

"And how does this whore come up to us and demand anything?" The head guard didn't spare a glance to the sparkling, although the child began to stir towards his voice. Soundwave took another step forward. The tiny weight in his arms felt heavier with each klik he stood.

"The use of my body for three cubes," Soundwave said, not caring who heard or not, "That was the price that was agreed upon. A good portion of your crew could attest to that deal."

The guards who had struck the bargain in the first place looked around nervously, unsure of what to do with the bold carrier before them.

Shadow's splintered fingers scratched against his carrier's chest, his soft wails filling Soundwave's sensors.

"Three cubes," His desperation plain by the tremble of his voice, "That's what I was promised…"

The head guard stared down, his harsh faceplates twisting into a snarl. He turned to his mechs, optics narrow and dark. He nodded, the slight movement indicating all they needed to know.

Three of them leapt from the freight and the field workers and miners fell back as they lashed their way to Soundwave.

Shadow cried out in terror, his blind optics weeping dark fluids down onto his carrier's chest and arms.

"Take that half-born monster," The head guard ordered, cold and grave even as Soundwave tried to run away, "Give the whore his payment."

"No. Please!" Soundwave spun around, trying to pull himself from the grasp of one guard only to be held by two others. They kicked him down, slamming his lithe body to the ground. He fell with Shadow still pressed against his chassis, his arms shifting to shield his child from the impact.

The once violent crowd was helpless, the deadly weapons of their overseers crackling painful currents in the air.

Soundwave screamed as he was drawn to his knees, his child ruthlessly torn from his aching arms.

His helm was yanked up and held still, optics forced open to see his crying, flailing sparkling. Shadow was dangling from his crippled legs, and the guard's face was empty of mercy or care.

Soundwave opened the creator bond as deep as it could go, his spark nearly exploding from the sheer weight of terror that slammed him. He could not speak aloud. He couldn't even think. He could only feel. And the feeling of unequal horror consumed every flare of his spark.

**::Shadow….Shadow!::**

The carrier struggled against the servos holding him back, their claws drawing paint, cracking metal, and drawing energon.

"You would have gotten more if you had remained in the pleasure house, drone." The guard who held Shadow took a leg on each servo, and the child wailed from the pain, "But as you said—"

**::No. Primus. Primus. Please—No. NO!::**

Soundwave felt his face sudden soak with tears, Shadow's pathetic cries drowning in his own.

"Three cubes of energon." The guard held the sparkling up. With one swift, sickening motion he split the child in two. Energon burst into a spray of blue upon the thirsty ground.

"Right there, as we agreed," He tossed the dead husk before Soundwave, the spine, wires, and gears falling in pieces, "And a long over-due termination. Consider it a bonus for a service well done."

A guard traced Soundwave's liplates but the carrier did not even move. His spark was cold. As if he had died instead. His optics were hazed and red, and the earth beneath him sank as his son's energon was soaked up. His processors were stalled, and his sensors gave nothing in response. All he felt was nothing. Numbness unlike anything he felt, the core of his spark dark and still.

They released him roughly, pushing him to the ground. He stared at the remains of what was once his little Shadow. He crawled, his servos and legs sticky from the energon of his son. He reached out slowly to touch his son.

He gathered the pieces of metal, from the twisted helm to the torn off legs and the lines and gears in between. He cradled it, his tears ruining his vision to the point where he imagined that if he would only blink he would see his Shadow once more, alive and crying for him. But as the tears dropped and cleared, there was nothing but lifeless materials in his arms. His spark was uncontrollable, blinding in pure anguish, his frame trembled from the power of it.

"And that is all the energon this field will get," The head guard announced, "Make the most of this generous offer."

"And as for you," Another overseer strolled past Soundwave, oblivious to his grief, "To the melting pot."

They grabbed Soundwave by his arms and forced him to stand. Yet he didn't let go of his little Shadow. They pushed him onwards, towards the gigantic melting pot where Cybertron's useless waste was thrown and disintegrated. A long streak of energon followed behind, seeping in from what was once Shadow's body. A line of hungry mechs and femmes followed the trail, lapping up the fluid in their blind hunger. The puddle of Shadow's energon was fought over like a treasure onto itself, the few fortunate bots drinking the substance straight from the earth. Their faces were stained by it, optics sick and red and they tried to dig deeper for more.

"Go on. You were always so eager to prove you were more than a pleasure drone." One mech taunted, "Go on, pretty one. Show them you're more than a good frag. Show them you can dissect. Disassemble."

Soundwave's face glinted in the rush of heat from the smoldering fires. And instead of backing away he found himself leaning forward, the warmth suddenly welcoming him to jump, to just fall and hear Shadow's cry once more.

"Throw him in. And be rid of the trash."

Soundwave only held his little Shadow tighter, his pedals inching towards the edge.

Suddenly, one of the overseeing mechs took a hold of Soundwave's arms and with a violent shake, forced the sparkling's remains out of his carrier's embrace.

The lifeless pieces fell into the immense fires, the shattered corpse disappearing silently in a yellow blaze.

The moment Shadow slipped from Soundwave's fingers, his entire world erupted in a fury of grief and hate.

His systems roared into a blinding flash. His spark thrashed so violently it almost burst out of him.

He did not recall how, but when his vision cleared and body calmed the guard who forced Shadow from his arms was on the ground with a deep and searing gash across his face. Soundwave's intakes were heavy, and glancing down he realized his tentacles were online and active, the tip of one dripping with a splash of drawn energon.

He stared down at the mech before him. His spark twisted with disgust. He raised his tentacles high, ready to strike through the guard's armor with a force strong enough to rip him apart.

A shot of electricity snapped through the air above and behind Soundwave. He collapsed. His vision was a veil of static His frame twitched violently as the current tore through him. His circuits burned and snapped. The air was thick with the scent of burning wires and spilled energon. His optics flickered and the image of a large servo descended on him.

"Your attract too much trouble within our ranks."

The voice fluctuated, crackling and breaking into streams of horrid sounds.

"We can't have that. You understand?"

The servo latched onto Soundwave's face, prying deep into the delicate plates.

And ripped them from the frame.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know why the end notes for the prologue chapter are showing up in ch.7.... -_- Please ignore that.


	8. Awakening

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special Thanks To: Jee, Kem, and of course Andromeda Prime for all the encouragement and proofreading you all did :) This chapter wouldn't even be up without you guys. All of you are awesome and I can't stress that enough.
> 
> A/N: Okay, I know I said we'd be heading to Iacon next but this had to be done first. Thanks for being so patient with me everyone. Work's been rough.
> 
> Warnings: AU; infanticide; harm to children; slavery of many kinds; abuse left and right; anything and everything that comes with war and oppressive societies

_Warrior tall, soldier strong, where do you march?_

_There upon the battleground? Where glory great is found?_

_Yes my love, there beyond that golden hill I'll go_

_There I march and there I'll be 'til trumpets sing me home_

_'Til trumpets sing me home_

The line of mechs trudged along the spiny paths of the scrapheap, their backs bent from the weight they carried. The bundles of wires, metal plates, and stone upon their frames made them appear monstrous, other-worldly in the red glow of the fields. The crackle of whips sliced through the air. An old mech fell as his knee joint shattered from the weight. Sad glances, poor merciful regret was all the grace given to him as the crowds trudged over his body, picking what could be salvaged and sold.

_And when at last, with victor's song you return from fields afar_

_So strong and safe, so brave and whole, we will be_

_Forever bound by spark_

A poor creature, shriveled and laying in refuse huddled against the darkness of an abandoned tunnel. With dull optics he watched the procession, the blue light within them waning slowly. A crude, suffocating mask shielded what remained of his disfigured face. His helm rolled back against the cold stone, audios filtering in the songs of the fields.

_So the sun laid down and rose again for many countless vorns_

_And the winds of east turned to west when the trumpets called them home_

_When the trumpets called them home_

He knew the song very well, heard it many times in many places; from the brothels his carrier would stumble from, to the fields of broken parts that scraped at his armor, and even in the dim slums he once carried Shadow through. The song was eternal. And Soundwave loathed it.

_In crates they came, those fallen ones, so dark and still and cold_

_The light once warm long torn from them_

_And great warriors marched no more_

Soundwave moved, his plates shifting painfully as he leaned towards the welcome darkness. The red light was harsher now, stinging his exposed facial components. His servos cupped the remnants of his face, the touch searing.

_And still he waited for his love, that senseless, faithful fool_

_And still he treads, that half-dead spark, in bleeding fields of blue_

The voices were disturbingly solid. The words still unclear yet there was a boldness in the sound, a sort of anger and spite that gave it weight.

A pair of pale yellow optics slinked towards Soundwave's pedals, and then another, until four pairs of hungry orbs stared right up at him. The scrawny mechanical rodents opened their mouths, reveal sets of sharp, rusted dentae. Two began to nibble at the mech's peds, scratching deep enough to tear a sliver of metal off.

"Faster!"

The lash of a whip came with the command, and at the end of that lash came the sounds of agony. The rodents scampered away at the commotion only to be pounced and chased by several sparklings who caught sight of them. One of the sparklings was light and nimble, snatching a rodent and tearing off the neck cables to rupture the energon line. Soundwave watched silently as the poor child drank the fluid, the glossa soaked wet with energon even as the rodent convulsed and screamed. The other sparklings raced over in a blur, fighting and tearing the rodent apart and sipping whatever energon remained. Precious drops fell on the ground. One sparkling fell on his knee joints and lapped it up.

The memory of his Shadow, dead and torn, tossed aside like trash while his energon was consumed engulfed the grieving mech. His servos clenched tightly, his spark flaring with the urge to kill those sparklings where they stood.

The creators of the sparklings cried out to them, their voices panicked and harsh. There was commotion in the line. Mechs and femmes cowered beneath the shadows of the ones carrying the ships. Soundwave heard a cry, then anger, screaming, terrible, desperate screaming. He moved slowly up the hill, turning his helm towards to sounds.

Sparklings were snatched by the necks, hoisted up in the air as a slender mech inspected them. This mech stood out painfully against the sweltering crowd. His paint was freshly dried, bright red and gold, every inch meticulously polished. His armor was pristine, from the absurd crest on his helm to his big flat peds. Peds, Soundwave noted with disgust, that weren't even on the ground. The upper caste mech sat well above the filthy ground upon a sedan chair, carried no less by four attending mechs. The device stuck out like a diamond nail on a rusty floor, all shimmer and shine, decorated with colors so bright and fine.

He nodded to one of his servants and the sparkling was thrown into a cage with several others. The selection process continued, the polished mech commenting lazily every so often.

"Rust all over. This will never do! They want strong ones." And just like that a sparkling was shoved back into the arms of his relieved creators.

"Ah, now that one, bring her to me."

The sparkling in question was tugged towards the noble, her arm nearly crushed by the firm hold of the servants.

"Gentle, gentle!" The mech reprimanded, motioning for the child to be lifted so he could inspect her. The femmling was trembling but obedient, flinching slightly when the noble mech's intrusive digits grazed her faceplates, wiping away the smear of mud that concealed her. The sparkling's optics were heavy and moist, she looked away and whimpered.

"You will learn quickly. I can see." The mech parted the sparkling's lip plates with a pleased sigh, "How fortunate for both of us."

The sparkling's frantic cries stirred Soundwave's spark as the noble's servants took her away, locking her in a cage even smaller and darker than the one the other sparklings were crammed into. One of her creators, a large mech, foolishly lunged at the noble, his huge fists raised and ready to hammer through the noble's helm. Two shots snapped through the air. The mech fell in a thick burst of shrapnel, his helm clinging to his shoulders by a few meager cables. Another mech screamed, collapsing as his mate's body convulsed from repeated gunfire. He knelt, his optics wide and desperate, servos outreached in a gesture begging for mercy. And he still met the same fate.

The other workers scampered away, averting their optics, their helms bowed low and defeated.

"That femmling is very young. Barely able to walk or speak." One of the servants said to his master as the two corpses were dragged to the side, "Shall she be used in the same study as the rest?"

"Youth is a quality many seek. Fresh, unbroken," The noble replied loudly, "A taste worth a handsome favor.."

There was bright laughter, as if no harm had been done. Soundwave stared at the chair hoisted up high above the bent and broken crowd. And he wondered and meditated...what it would take to strike him down?

The slush of metal and mud diverted his thoughts. Soundwave pulled himself up, crawling up for a better view. One of the sparklings who tore apart the rodent earlier was being lead away by a dark, young femme. Her armor was obsidian black, her eyes deep red from hunger. Her tiny frame covered the little sparkling as best as he could, hushing him and wiping the stains of energon from his quivering mouth.

"Cade, stop." The dark femme pulled him closer, her optics sick and waning, "They will hear you."

The mechling garbled in reply, clinging to his carrier's leg. Another sparkling was taken by its peds and thrown into the collection box. The sight of the thrashing sparkling being beaten until it slid limply into the cage only made the younger mechling sob harder. His mother clamped her servo over his mouth, bracing him tightly against her as she tried to push through the crowd away from the officers. She was only repelled back, shoved into the dirt as she begged for someone to let them through.

But time was short and the noble was being less selective. And all the while that terrible cage of children rattled and cried.

"Do not scream," The femme wrapped an arm around him, her servo over his mouth once again, "Barricade. Please."

The sparkling's helm tried to turn up to see his mother's face. She held him down firmly. With no warning she snapped the digits on his left servo backward. The mechling's optics blazed, bright from the raw pain. He bit his carrier's servo but kept clinging to her regardless, the tears gushing out of his optics as his body shook.

"And what of this one?"

A guard pulled Barricade from his carrier's hold. The mechling's face was smeared with mud and tears, his scarlet optics wide as the guard inspected him, turning his helm this way and that.

"Defective," The noble mech said, frowning when Barricade's broken servo was held up. The noble took out a cleaning cloth and rubbed a fleck of mud off his shoulder, "Leave him be."

The guard grunted and threw the mechling down. Barricade scampered back, his arms outreached for his carrier. She swept him up, her voice breaking as she kissed his muddy, rugged helm. Relief, disbelief, joy, it was all written in the brightness of her smile, the sweetness of her sigh.

Soundwave's servos tightened. Envy stung bitter and hard through his empty spark. Yet he could not bring himself to hate them.

Then noble's optic ridge curved up, smile slanting as he motioned for the guards to move. Soundwave cringed as their attention returned to the carrier and creation. Only this time it was the femme they took, dragging her by the helm as her terrified son wailed.

"Get off you little defect!"

A guard kicked the mechling, sending him rolling over the edge of the hill as his horrified carrier fought to reach him, screaming for him to get up and run. The sparkling whirled in reply. His helm was turned to the side, his jaw loose, mouth dribbling energon.

The noble paid no mind to the carrier's distress as he slipped his servo wherever he pleased across her frame.

"No match for the beauties of the great cities." The noble said, "But clearly a class above this garbage."

The femme spat at him, her dentae bare, like a rabid animech afflicted with madness. She earned a slap across the face for it. Her intake slowed, the breath pulled from her as a device was clamped over her mouth and servos.

"My, can she put up a fight. A fast runner too I bet. She'll be trouble. She'll struggle and fight every second." The noble nodded to the guards. One of them swung her over his shoulder, bound and carried like nothing more than scrap.

"And I know of some who would find great thrill in the hunt."

The noble flashed a coin bearing the sigil of the seekers. The servants carrying his chair trudged along the ground as gracefully as they could. All the while hungry optics stared silently at the polished, refined mech and his entourage. They nearly passed through the row of field workers when the high chair suddenly swayed. There was a frenzy around the upper-caste mech, servants rushing to attend to the ball of mud and dirt that smacked him at the side of his face.

The red and gold mech pushed their intrusive servos away, tossing the cleansing clothes they swept over his frame to the ground.

"I should break your arms off. Pathetic piece of slag,"

Barricade, with his dislocated jaw and broken servo, limped his way towards his unconscious mother. His functioning servo was closed around another wad of mud, his red optics flushed with tears.

Soundwave at last stood upright, unsure of what he wanted to do.

The sight seemed to appease the noble however, and he laughed. The boisterous noise matched terribly against the sound of lashing whips and straining metal.

"But I won't. You are much too amusing." The upper caste mech sighed, satisfied that his day was not completely ruined, "A valiant little warrior indeed. If it's compensation you want, here!"

The wealthy mech threw a miserable piece of copper at the sparkling. The hungry mud swallowed it up immediately.

"A generous price." The polished mech laughed, his smile cruel as he gestured for his guards to leave the mechling be, "To ease the parting blow as they go little slag! Pay another to nurse you. And be quick about the credit lest these other fools beat you for it."

There was a collective heave beneath the noble as his servants lifted him up. In a beautiful, colorful array he made his trek through the miserable fields, building his collection and laughing all the way.

It wasn't long until work resumed, all sparks still dimmed and backstruts bent. Save for the little, dark, defective mechling crying silently in the crowd.

The sparkling stood his ground, waiting, staring at the distance where his mother was carried off to. Soundwave finally moved out of his hiding place when the sparkling slowly sank in the mud. The mechling's creaky knee joints hit the ground, kneeling and curling into his own body in some sorry attempt to comfort himself.

Soundwave's helm turned down, his digits pulling his mask tight against his mangled face. There were stares. Oh there were always stares. And while before the stares were filled with disdain and envy, now there was nothing more than disgust, a pathetic sense that they were somehow superior of having their faceplates still intact. The dark blue mech ignored them, approaching the mechling cautiously.

His steps slowed when he realized he had nothing to offer or say. What could he do for a child that would lose his carrier yet again? First the physical distance. And soon, the blue mech feared, the child would feel the familial bond rip from him. And at his wretched state Soundwave doubted the child could survive it.

"Soundwave,"

He turned. The voice was deeper than he remembered, confident and strong.

The silver mech he once pulled from the refuse stood so tall now. Rather than hunch him, the heap of scraps strapped on his shoulders made him larger, more formidable. New scars graced his massive frame, earned by his neverending forays into the most dangerous mines. The mud stuck heavily on his pedals, another coat to mar the silver of his paint. His face was covered in dark dust, and it only made the red of his optics blaze brighter. There was a scent that clung to him, faint but distinct, one of death and spilled energon.

There was thoughtfulness in those scarlet optics, the rare blaze of cleverness and intent so gravely lacking in the slums. Once the gaze caught you, it was impossible to turn away from. There was an energy around him, a strange force that pulled you to him. Soundwave obeyed, the command wordless but unmistakable. He extended his servo to receive the morsel from Tron.

It was a scant amount of energon, blinking blue in spite of the red lights above them, defiant and precious. Soundwave stared at it, as if it would crumble cruelly into ash should he divert his optics. He felt its weight on his servo, light yet solid, the tidings of health and hope. Signals mixed within him, circuits surging with sudden hunger, spark brightening in sheer gratitude.

When he looked up Tron had already moved on. The heavy burden tied to his back cast long shadows, the mud lifting in dark waves under his pedals.

The silver mech passed by the crying mechling. It appeared to Soundwave that the child only cried harder under the shadow of Tron.

The rugged miner eyed the mechling wearily, a gruff huff of heat pushed from his intake. The sound was deep, solid, unlike the phantom-like presence of any other miner. The mechling's cries ebbed away into a surprise whirl when the silver mech brushed something on his chassis. Barricade's functioning servo quickly caught the object before it fell down into the mud.

The mechling blinked. With watery optics he took his time to commit the image to memory. He grasped the crude cut of energon in the palm of his servo, his grip so tight in almost cut into the exposed mesh of cybertronian flesh.

"Go."

Barricade jumped at the low rumble of Tron's voice.

"Before they see."

He looked up, young optics wide and unsure. The silver mech raised an optic ridge, nudging past him. The motion made Barricade slide into the mud. He whirled and chirped, crawling through the muck.

A current snapped through the air. The miners all ducked, the pain striking through the heated space. Barricade quickly slipped the cube of energon into his mouth, mud, filth, and all. The taste was bitter at first, full of crude oil and mud. Then beneath that, sweetness. Barricade's hunger only made it sharper til it stung, the sweetness of energon mixing with the sour of his tears.

The ache of taste and thirst consumed his senses. He did not hear the snap of the currents, the lash of the whip, nor the smell of metal melting beneath immense heat.

* * *

The deep night found Tron striking steel against the fire, stirring the coals into a blazing fever. The fields were still, the red light was faded, dimmed into an eerie, sickly scarlet. The occasional crackle of electricity lit up the field, the energy surging in a shade of blue like a strain of fresh energon seeping from a wound.

"The little femme. The one whose creators were killed after they took her-"

"Brothel,"

"No. A pretty, sweet, fresh one like that? They won't have her spoilt in a pleasure house. She's going to be personal plaything for the mech most willing to keep her locked away."

"Aye, yes. And the other ones?"

"It's either to some crazy mech's berth or the berth of a patron, or some other kind of berth-"

"No, No." Another voice interrupted, spitting into the ground, " Sometimes they make em' run. Make em think there's a chance to escape."

"I've heard of such. There is an old noble mech leagues away from here. Pays great money for a hunt. They say you can hear them screaming at night, hear their sparks crackle and sputter out when his cyberhounds catch em'."

Tron scowled and tossed the steel aside. The fire gave little warmth, but it's soft presence was welcomed just the same. In the shadows, optics gazed at the inviting light. But none dared to step within reach of the warmth, not with the massive mech sitting right beside it. Well...except for one.

Barricade was a mere footstep away from Tron. The sparkling was uneasy beneath his shadow, though more out of discomfort than actual fear. The sparkling chirped, crawling over towards the fire. Tron growled, scooting out away from the child who never ceased to appear before him. He almost regretted ever giving that sorry piece of energon to the mechling. The child was noisy the first few hours, always chirping and whirling and trying to get his attention. Tron had firmly ignored him, pushing over the mechling multiple times whenever the child got too close for his liking. And yet the little dark mechling kept limping after him. His chirps quieted after a while. His steps slowed. But he never stopped limping after the silver mech.

It unnerved Tron, how easily this strange little thing could become attached to one as distant and cold as he. There was just one other who did that, one with optics of brilliant blue full of purity unreal.

Memories of Orion, the warmth of his voice and the kindness of his touch made even the most inviting fire feel frigid.

It seemed as if the separation made his memories of Orion all the more glorified, the words between them sweeter, the yearning fiercer. And it plagued him to think of where the younger mech was now, whether dying in the ruins of Burthov or rusting in pieces like the scrap he hauled each day.

His thoughts usually fled to fantasy then. Dreams of Orion crossing that red field to meet him and welcome him, guiding him to wherever he wished to go. More often than that, Tron envisioned himself breaking through that sick, red sky, shattering the boundaries, taking in the sharp air as he'd rush towards the stars Orion so loved. Stars that he would seize if Orion would just ask.

He laughed hard at the thought, both at the ridiculousness of it and the bitterness of his solitude.

A small thump against his foot broke his thoughts, reminding him of his unwelcomed company. Barricade shrugged his shoulders in apology as he picked up the little stones he was throwing into the fire, never minding to even pick up the one that misfired at Tron. The silver mech huffed, his engine rumbling low into a deep warning. The dark mechling understood and sat quietly, rubbing his injured servo as the energon leaked out.

"They say those other sparklings might be given to the medics for their parts."

"Which ones?"

"Whatever ones they need. Haven't you heard? An illness spreads through the streets of the city-states. The sparklings are dropping like lead."

"And are ours any better off? It'll be a miracle if they can find the parts they want that aren't diseased or broken."

"They wait I hear. Wait until the sparklings they snatched are healthy and strong. Then they take the parts. The ones who find favor get to die quickly, painlessly."

"Too expensive. I say they just rip them em and toss em."

Tron stroked the fire once more, the gentle spit and snap of the fire a fair distraction from the morbid topic. It was a popular point of conversation in the scrapyards to discuss and debate the fates of the mechs and femmes snatched out of their ranks. For some it was clear that they meant to become pleasure drones, others targets for the noble's sick bloodsports, and even some were rumored to be taken to the gladiator pits as punishment for some imagined slight against their masters. Tron believed all of it and much worse.

To have beauty, to have strength, intelligence, grace or any form of spirit was to invite the interest of superior mechs. And it was universal knowledge that interest quickly lead to less palatable entertainment.

It was best to be unseen, dull, witless, and devoid of passion save for that yearning to serve and submit.

The rapid, arguing voices hushed suddenly as a pair of immense mechs trudged through the miners' quarters. Quarters being a generous term for the patch of dirt beside the tunnels that lead beneath the surface. It was dark there, with fires needing to be constantly attended and stirred. There were countless bots huddled around the rings of fire. The lot of them were like tightly packed bunches of tin in trash bins, dull optics sunk into hollow faces, mutilated frames groaning for any morsel of food and rest.

The two intruders stomped carelessly upon the ground, spitting out crude chunks of energon from the raw portions they flaunted around. Both mechs bit into the crystallized energon they carried. The sound was sharp, crushing. The glow of the energon as they bit into it was mesmerizing, taunting, mocking. And the tanks of the laborers churned from hunger and envy.

The two large mechs finished their energon, spitting out the harder portions they found too difficult to chew. The older of the two kicked whatever they spat out so violently as to bury it in the dirt, less a laborer be desperate and foolish enough to try to eat it.

The miniscule light illuminated the armor of the two giants, revealing the shield and spear associated with their caste. A simple glimpse was all Barricade had to see. The mechling hid behind Tron, cowering his helm down, his anxious servo grabbing the handful of rocks he was playing with earlier.

Soundwave stepped from the darkness. Tricks of light and shadows danced on his emotionless visor. His vision focused on the crests the mechs sported. Disgust bit at the pit of his tanks. Out of instinct more than care he pulled Barricade behind him. The mechling's weak energy field lashed quickly, the fear of being touched felt raw, disturbing and full of fury. Soundwave swept a strong pulse towards the little one. The force instantly silenced him.

What the dark blue mech did not expect however, was the immediate return of the mechling's energy. This time it clung to him. There was terrible familiarity in it. The strange trust of a child. The mingling urge to protect and be accepted.

He shut it out, snapping the connection. He could never bear that again.

Barricade whined at the sudden absence, the rejection of what felt like a carrier's field enveloping his. He began to cry.

"What," The taller of the guards said, turning his helm right where Barricade hid,"Is that infernal noise?"

Soundwave's long limbs reached for Barricade, his digits curling around the mechling's arm.

"Ha! That was fast work. You've replaced that half-breed son of yours quickly," The dark armored mech heaved at the heavy laughter bellowing from him, "Fair trade."

Soundwave pushed Barricade down, knocking him away from their reach. The blue mech was swift, dashing to the right of the guards to evade them. But their servos were quicker and the biggest mech caught him, grasping the seam of the neck and flinging him back.

The crowd watched. Fear rendered them helpless as the guards tossed Soundwave between them. The crackling of metal, the forceful touches and pained cries all pronounced by the petrified silence.

Large fingers dipped into seams, flicking against the visor masking Soundwave's damaged face. Still he did not beg. He swung his long arms against them. But they only took hold, shaking him violently and prying into whatever piece of him was exposed. The blue mech to struggled, twisting away and attempting to strike.

But the fight was feeble, his defiance and rage pitiful in their sight.

All the while Tron watched. The silver once was silent as stone, body still as unbent steel. But in his optics there was a feverish glow, brilliant from the violent heat of a spark stirred.

"We'll have more than just your face,"

Rough servos dragged across Soundwave's visor. The crude fingers dug against Soundwave's neck cables, sweeping over his heated chassis, venturing further down.

"I'll rip your panel clean off." The guard spat. The spit splashed on Soundwave's visor. Brutal fingers tugged the panel, carelessly trying to pry it off, "Right here for everyone to see. Betcha it won't even be a show. Betcha you already spread yourself for everyone with optics to see...ha, maybe not even. As long as they got fingers to frag you with-"

A single rock flung through the air, striking the guard on the side of his helm.

"You insolent little slag!"

The other guard lunged, face wild and rabid as he swooped like a monster, snatching Barricade from the ground. The mechling flailed, his fist still full of rocks. He hit the guard as hard as he could, banging his own helm as a weapon when the rocks were smacked from his hold.

"You know what's done to useless, expendable defects?" The guard whipped Barricade by the heel of one leg, "Shall we ask the faceless whore?" His companion smirked, forcing Soundwave's helm up to watch.

Fear, cold and paralyzing, swept through Soundwave's spark as the mechling was dangled upside down. There was no playfulness in the guard's face as he held the sparkling's pedals apart.

Soundwave struggled no more. He felt cold, as his spark had frozen. Numbness, emptiness spread through him, as if he'd been gutted and all the energon within had spilled out of him.

"You'll follow this time," The guard whispered against his audios. He felt the heavy presence of a gun against his back, a single round would rip through him in a burst of spark and sharpnel, "Take comfort in that,"

Soundwave refused to hang his helm down. Instead he looked up, straight at the mechling he only met, a child he should care nothing for. There was foolish hope in those starving optics, blind trust and quivering fear.

There was a sick, short, scream then the muted sound of gunfire blasting through thick armor. Heat flashed in the air, the exposed spark flaring out wildy, illuminating the dreadful faces of the laborers. The night turned colder as the flare vanished, a strange chill drifting through the air as a spark burnt out forever. The smell, to the horror of many, was enticing.

Soundwave fell to the ground, his systems surging in panic as he tried to make sense of what happened. There was a crushing blow beside him, the sound of heavy armory being torn off. Flecks of light spat in the darkness. Soundwave's vision focused quickly enough to see Tron, his silver frame splattered in energon, rip the gun from the guard's lifeless husk. Tendrils of the guard's spark remnants puffed in the air as Tron cleaved the guard's arm from his corpse with his bare servos. Wires, cables and energon all spewed out as Tron hauled the arm, swinging it over his helm. Heavy drops of energon splattered on him, Soundwave and all those close by, the blue substance glowing on the hungry ground.

Soundwave blinked as his vision blurred, static spurting across his visor. His helm, face, chest, servos, all stained bright blue. The guard's energon rolled off as Soundwave shook under a savage roar. There was a another crack, heavy, sickening. A sparkling screamed and fell, scampering away from the frenzy of silver and black.

The dead body beside Soundwave twitched, energon and fluids spurting out in slow streams. Barricade crawled quickly through it, straight to the dark blue mech. Soundwave reached for him, pulling him aside. His carrier protocols spun wildly through his processor, overriding his better judgement. He scanned the mechling quickly, spark pulsing when he found minor injuries. Barricade cried, tears gushing profusely.

He pointed out, his bent little fingers curved towards the horrific image of Tron tearing the second guard apart.

The guard's helm was already limp, his neck crushed by the force of Tron's claws. The silver mech threw the body to the ground, flaying plates of armor from the guard's back. Clusters of wires, gears, and bolts flew out, hitting the bystanders who had only grown in number at the commotion. Tron's heavy fists smashed down on the guard's helm 'til it was flattened, bits of processor spilling out from the grooves on his helm. Tron bent one of the arms back, popping it out of the joint.

"They aren't even strong!" Tron kicked the back of the guard, anchoring him with his pedal as he pried the rest of the body apart, "Nothing but cheap armor! Nothing but extra metal. Hollow. Worthless."

For once, the audience generated noise, rushed whispers and restrained tears, grumbling words full of anger and regret.

"All of this," Megatron dragged one leg with his servo and an arm on the other, pushing his way through the crowd, "All of it scrap."

A thick river of energon smeared the ground behind, a trail of bright blue light upon the barren path. The laborers' pedals were soaked as they stepped over it, following behind the silver mech. Others, little ones whose tanks churned, bent down and drank the substance, their mouths full of dirt and energon. The dark, filthy frames followed behind Tron like eager shadows, making him appear grander and bolder than anything that had tread the field before.

Tron leaned over a pit of fire and molten metal, the immense heat it generated felt encompassing as he swung the ravaged corpse into the melting pot. Sparks and flame flares wildly as it made impact. Tron threw the rest of the remains in, cursing and scolding for all to hear.

"They are no more than the slag they strap on our backs," The silver mech said to the faces staring up at him, "Nothing but scrap and miserable, fleeting sparks. You could have torn them apart eons ago. Thrown each of them in for the heat rather than suffer in the darkness and cold!"

Barricade clung to Soundwave's leg, his bright red optics basking in the hellish glow. Soundwave looked around them and saw the bodies of the laborers lean forward, the energy fields sweeping outward, sparks beating fast as if magnetized by Tron. Their skeletal frames reached out, like desperate shadows seeking substance to fill them.

"Treason! Murderer!"

The crowd turned at the shrieking wails of an old femme, her limbs thin, like sticks ready to snap from a mere puff of the wind. Her yellow optics dragged down, mouth gaping in terror as she pointed at Tron.

"Unicron's blood! Unicron's soul! Evil mech, evil spark!"

"Murder? Is it?" Tron answered back, grabbing a dismembered part and casting it into the flames, "What are two guards to the number of sparklings they took this very day?"

The old femme kept screaming of treason and death, banging her own helm with her diseased rusted servos.

"Or the carriers they take to their berths? For pleasure and their sick games? What of the sires that die forsaken in the fields while their children are forced to eat the remains of spoiled beasts?"

The rumble of the crowd grew into a near frenzy.

"What of the orphans? Of carriers who had their young ones torn before them? Thrown like scrap into the melting pits? Is it murder then? Is it?"

Soundwave's spark flashed hot, his fury and grief raging anew. The answer was there in Tron's words. And the truth hurt deeply.

"Let no rebel spoil the fields. Let no murderer lose. Treason! Treason! Evil!"

The femme's cries ceased in a terrible gurgle of energon as Soundwave sliced her neck.

The crowd was stunned silent again. The energon spewed heavily, drenching Soundwave. He staggered as her helm peeled off from the neck, falling with a dull thump on the moist ground.

He trembled, the sharp of metal he pulled from the guard's corpse still grasped around his fingers.

There was a chirp nearby.

He looked down to see Barricade, his black armor now glowing with energon. A large glob of it was dribbling down Barricade's helm, running like thin ribbons of blue along his young face. One stream trickled at the side of his face, nearly touching the edge of his mouth. Barricade's olfactory sensors were filled with the scent, his processor suddenly confused, unable to decipher the difference between energon that could be consumed and the energon that brought life to every being with a spark. His tanks crunched in hunger, his lip plates quivered. His glossa slowly shifted, daring to catch a drop of the spilled life-giving energon.

But a gentle servo wiped his face clean before he could taste it.

Soundwave pulled him close, wiping away the energon as best as he could. Barricade's optics filled up quickly, his spark bouncing at the familiar pulse of a carrier's careful touch. Soundwave found himself offering his servo for the mechling to hold. Barricade grasped it instantly. The blue mech couldn't smile from the happiness of being accepted, nor could he cry at the fact that his own son never had the chance to hold to him like this strange mechling did. But he held tightly to that servo all the same.

The crowd parted in excited whispered as they moved towards Tron, Soundwave with Barricade on one servo and the dead husk clenched in his other. Their trek towards that melting pit felt long, the gazes cast upon them invasive, disturbing, yet amazed...worshipful in the trance they were in.

When they reached the pit, Soundwave released Barricade long enough to dump the femme's body into the fire. The heat rushed around him, and he felt cleansed, purified.

And then before Tron he bowed. It was not a half bow, like the miserable gesture that was given to the superior mechs who barged through the fields and struck them down with their whips. No. This time Soundwave's entire body fell at Tron's feet.

_Thank you_

The message was garbled, coarse, but sincere.

_Thank you_

Then the figures all around them ventured closer to the light, distinct faces and frames looking up at the silver mech. Their hungry sparks yearned for more, thirsty for more of the spirit and defiance they witnessed that night. Tron stood as a statue before the flames as the laborers bent their wrecked bodies, silently bowing before the defiant one.


End file.
